


Shadows of Savoy

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 69,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February in France was far more than simply uncomfortable, it was bitterly cold; unfortunately, the King’s business didn’t stop during the winter months. They had been riding for two days, searching for four men who had escaped the local Comte’s custody and were now hiding somewhere in the French countryside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all those who read, commented and left kudos on my last story and were kind enough to request another. I moved from my last one directly to this one and was shocked to find it somewhat longer and more angst-filled than my previous offerings. Hope you enjoy.

February in France was far more than simply uncomfortable, it was bitterly cold; unfortunately, the King’s business didn’t stop during the winter months. Travelling through the snow-filled days of winter required heavy layers of clothing in an effort to ward off the chill that seemed to penetrate regardless and made movement awkward and slow. The horses were bereft of their surefootedness, unable to see what lay beneath the thick blanket of white that covered everything and often hid dangers such as dropped branches or deep holes that could make a horse lame with a single misstep. As if these hazards weren’t enough to make travel treacherous, the fewer hours of daylight added another challenge, leaving travellers scurrying for shelter before the sun disappeared, taking its meager warmth with it.

 

d’Artagnan dipped his chin further into the thick scarf that covered his head and face, his breath crystallizing against the wool with every exhale. They had been riding for two days, searching for four men who had escaped the local Comte’s custody and were now hiding somewhere in the French countryside. Each morning they would set out and search, riding as far as they were able, before returning to thaw and rest at the small inn where they had found lodgings. The men they sought were locals and their advantage was an intimate knowledge of the area, but even the Comte had to admit that if the men weren’t found in the next day or two, they had likely moved to other parts and would have to be located at a later date.

 

All traces of the men’s escape had been erased by the snow that had been falling steadily each night, and as the Gascon looked at the sky, he shivered with the knowledge that today’s snow would likely not wait until nightfall. Looking ahead, the land and the sky seemed to merge into one, both a dim shade of gray which made it difficult to discern where one ended and the other began. The only sounds around them were the occasional snort of their horses as they plodded through the heavy, wet snow under their riders’ expert hands. As was usually the case, Athos rode at the front, choosing their path through the field, then moving to follow the edge of the woods that led in the direction of the lands they’d be searching today. From their conversations with the townspeople, there was a river that ran through a nearby valley and the forests stretched around them for many miles, eventually opening onto farmland where a few had built their homes. This was their destination, since it was possible that one of the farmers had been sympathetic to the prisoners’ situation and had given them shelter while the Musketeers searched.

 

Athos halted and waited for the others to draw abreast before issuing his orders. This was the point at which they’d agreed to separate, sending two riders in each direction in an effort to cover more ground. Making eye contact with Aramis, Athos said “You and d’Artagnan take the farms to the east. If I recall correctly, there are three and you should have enough time to check them all before returning to the inn. Porthos and I will move to the west.” Without further words, Athos turned his mount and began moving away, confident that Porthos would follow.

 

The Gascon was glad of the scarf that covered his face as it also served to hide his hurt and surprise at having been sent off with Aramis. Not that he minded the man’s company, but it was unusual for Aramis to be partnered up with anyone but Porthos when the four were together. d’Artagnan thought back to the past week, reflecting on the melancholy mood that seemed to have befallen their leader, which seemed to be accompanied by an increase in the man’s already heavy indulgence in wine. The young man had pointed out Athos’ even quieter moods, asking his friends if they should intervene and stop the man from drowning himself each night, but the two had merely shared a knowing glance and told him to leave things be. He’d tried to follow their advice, but three days later his concern for his mentor spiked when the man fell off his horse after a night of heavy drinking.

 

His words had been coloured by the deep worry he held at seeing the older man so easily thrown from his horse, and he’d rounded on Athos, berating him angrily. “You’re still drunk!” he’d accused the man. Athos had merely shrugged as he brushed the snow from his cloak and breeches. The man’s nonchalant attitude merely served to infuriate the Gascon further. “We’re on a mission and you’re drunk. I know you normally drink a fair bit of wine, but these last few days have been excessive, even for you. How can you care so little for your safety and ours?”

 

Those last words had clearly stung and Athos had looked at him sharply, declaring, “I assure you that your concern for both my safety and yours is misplaced. I am more than capable of performing my duties and will not remind you again that you answer to me, not the other way round.”

 

The venom of Athos’ words had shocked the Gascon and, when he’d looked for help from his other two friends, he found them both looking down, examining the ground. He’d huffed in frustration and looked away while Athos regained his seat, making sure to drop back to the end of their line, wanting to be as far away from the older man as possible. Sadly, things had not improved as Athos walked away alone every evening, leaving d’Artagnan no opportunity to talk with the man or to apologize. He’d once again sought the guidance of his brothers, but they refused to say anything about the situation, simply telling him to be patient and that things would resolve themselves with time.

 

Aramis broke him from his reverie as d’Artagnan realized he was being spoken to. “Come on then, we should get moving.” He looked up at the skies noticing what the Gascon had already observed earlier. “It’s likely to snow later and I want to be back in front of a warm fire before it does.”

 

The young man nodded and spurred his horse into movement, leading the way as Aramis motioned to him with an “after you” gesture of his hand. Their ride continued in silence, the air around them too cold for conversation, lest their words carry to their prey on the frigid air. His horse needed little guidance to continue plodding at the edge of the woods and d’Artagnan allowed his mind to drift again. Winters in Gascony had been milder than this and he was still struggling to adjust to the many months of cold. In addition, he’d never before been forced to sleep outside during the winter months and the few times it had happened he’d watched the preparations of his brothers carefully, doing his best to learn from their experience. His friends had all cautioned him about the dangers of exposure, showing him how to build a passable shelter from tree branches and cloaks and warning him of the signs that signalled the body’s reaction to the extreme temperatures. He was grateful now that this mission allowed them to return to the relative comfort of the inn each night, where they could thaw their icy hands and feet, and rest properly without the racking shivers that typically prevented a proper night’s sleep outdoors.

 

One instant d’Artagnan was considering the roaring warmth of the inn’s fireplace and the next he found himself shifting sideways off his horse as the beast slipped and struggled to regain its footing on the incline that hid beneath the snow. His lack of attention cost him as his horse gave another great heave of its body, successfully righting itself but throwing the Gascon off in the process. Behind him, he heard a cry of alarm from Aramis, whose horse had been startled by the fear and wild actions of d’Artagnan’s steed, rearing up to throw its rider as well. The young man’s next thoughts were of dizziness and confusion as he found himself hitting the ground and then rolling down a hill, hitting obstacles as his path took him into the woods they’d been following. He caught glimpses of bushes pushing up through the snow, the canopy of the trees having prevented a deep layer of white from accumulating. As he hurtled down the hill, he grabbed at branches and bushes, trying and failing to slow his tumble. His out flung arm hit something hard and unyielding and he heard a crack that echoed through the woods, even before he realized the pain that accompanied the sound. Another few revolutions of his body brought him to a rattling stop as his back hit the trunk of a large tree, and he had time for one last thought of his friend before his eyes closed and his awareness fled.

* * *

His head ached horribly and his eyes refused to focus. Those were his first thoughts as awareness returned and he lay in the cold, looking up at the small patches of sky that could be seen through the tree branches above him. His next sensations were of cold and, moving one hand, he fisted a handful of the wet substance around him, bringing the hand to his face to see what he held. Snow! The realization sent him into a panic and he struggled to sit up, his head hanging loosely against his chest, seemingly too heavy and painful for him to lift. He could feel his heart racing and hear the rush of blood in his ears, but his eyes still refused to focus, only intensifying the fear that gripped him.

 

Managing to push himself to a seated position, he found himself leaning against a tree where he laid his head back against the trunk in an effort to compose himself. His eyes kept trying to close and he forced them open each time, seeing the shadows of Savoy around him. His brothers! The knowledge that his brothers had perished and he was surrounded by their bodies paralyzed him, and he wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to stifle the sobs that threatened to erupt. Images of the dead assaulted him and he was unaware of the low keening sounds that he emitted. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he leaned forward, holding his head in his hands, unable to make sense of the horrors that his mind was conjuring. He sat there, rocking his body slowly, eyes closed, praying for escape. 

* * *

Porthos waited until they had ridden a reasonable distance before moving to ride beside his friend. He sat there patiently, waiting to see if Athos would speak, but finally realized that the burden of this conversation fell to him.

 

“You usually like to keep the boy close to you,” he stated, not mincing words.

 

Athos had the grace to wince at his friend’s words, Porthos noticing the reaction by the crinkle of the man’s eyes since the lower half was covered by a scarf. Porthos waited to see if the other man would say anything, but he remained silent. “What’s going on between you two?” he asked.

 

“What makes you think there’s anything going on?” Athos countered, keeping his eyes forward.

 

Porthos snorted quietly, “Anyone can see that you’ve been avoiding the boy.” The man paused to see if his words would garner a reaction and, when none was forthcoming, he decided on a slightly different approach. “You seem to drink more heavily this time of year.” Still, the other man rode in silence, neither acknowledging nor refuting the claim. “What is it that you’re trying to forget?”

 

Athos looked up sharply at the insightful question, ready to tell his friend to leave him alone, but the look of concern and compassion in the other man’s eyes made him rethink his angry words. Porthos waited patiently, seeing the conflicting emotions on his friend’s face. “Thomas,” the word was breathed out so quietly that Porthos almost missed it, but as his mind registered what he’d heard, he nodded in understanding.

 

“When?” Porthos prompted.

 

“The 24th of February,” Athos replied. The date was six days away and was no doubt the reason for Athos’ excessive drinking as well as his even more subdued mood. “For some reason his birthday has always been harder to bear than the anniversary of his death,” Athos continued. “Perhaps because his death was overshadowed by the treachery of my wife.”

 

Porthos reached a hand across, squeezing the other man’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said.

 

Athos nodded distractedly. “He would have been twenty-four this year.” Twenty-four, not so unlike their young Gascon who they’d all adopted into their family. Porthos guessed that at this time of year, the young man’s presence might be a difficult reminder of Athos’ loss.

 

“You should tell them,” Porthos murmured, knowing that his brothers would be nothing but understanding and sympathetic.

 

“Perhaps,” his friend responded, “someday.” With that the conversation was over and Athos returned his stare to the gray landscape ahead of them, pressing his heels to his horse’s flanks to move ahead of Porthos.

 

The larger man shook his head as his friend moved away, “Bloody idiot,” he said to himself, affectionately.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis! The thought jolted him as he recalled the events of his fall, remembering that the two men had been alone and Aramis had also been thrown from his horse. If he was still alone, it could only mean that Aramis was injured as well and unable to come to his aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to the first chapter of this story and to all of you who offered your support through your comments and kudos. Hope you enjoy this next installment!

The first thing d’Artagnan was aware of was the cold, seemingly seeping into his bones from everywhere, and he shivered at the sensation. The shiver awoke the numerous aches and pains assaulting his body, none more urgent than the agony that throbbed in his left arm. Forcing his eyes open, he saw the sky and branches above him, and a roll of his head revealed his position, lying on his back, spread-eagled in the snow. With great care, he rolled to his left side, spotting his arm lying crookedly beside him. Placing his right hand on the ground, he used it to push himself up, jarring his arm in the process as it was lifted slightly off the ground. The pain that flared took his breath away and he struggled not to lay back down and pass out again. Once he felt capable of movement, he grasped his injured arm with his right hand, stabilizing it as he lifted his upper body into an upright position against the tree at his back. Resting again, he tried to work up the courage to examine his throbbing limb, knowing that he’d need to complete at least some basic triage before he’d be able to move.

 

When his breathing had steadied he lifted his cloak away from his arm and, pressing gently along its length, he knew immediately when he touched the break in his forearm, sending another bolt of nausea-inducing pain up his entire left side. Steeling himself, he forced himself to finish the examination, thankfully finding no additional breaks. He knew that his arm would need to be splinted but doubted that he could accomplish the task alone. Instead, he loosed the lacing of his doublet and manoeuvered his left hand inside, placing it on his belt to provide some support. Resting once more to gain control over the pain, he took stock of the rest of his body which seemed none the worse for wear, save for a dull throbbing in his head. He wondered as he sat if anyone was looking for him yet, and whether someone had managed to catch his startled horse.

 

Aramis! The thought jolted him as he recalled the events of his fall, remembering that the two men had been alone and Aramis had also been thrown from his horse. If he was still alone, it could only mean that Aramis was injured as well and unable to come to his aid. The thought drove d’Artagnan to his feet, leaning for a moment against the tree that had stopped his descent down the hill as he waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. Feeling relatively steady, the Gascon started retracing his way up the hill, his previous path clearly visible by the trampled snow. About half-way up he spotted some more disturbed snow and followed it to find Aramis rocking slowly against a tree.

 

Approaching slowly, d’Artagnan called out to this friend, uncertain about his injuries. “Aramis, are you alright?” His words went unanswered as his friend continued his rhythmic rocking, a low keening spilling from his throat, which only escalated the Gascon’s worry. “Aramis?” d’Artagnan held his broken arm as he crouched slowly in front of his friend, then reached out to tentatively touch the other man’s shoulder.

 

The effect was instantaneous as Aramis lifted his head to stare at him, a look of horror and confusion on his face. d’Artagnan was shocked by the look of madness in his friend’s eyes and the grizzly trail of blood that trailed down the left side of his face. Regaining his composure, the young man moved his hand to examine the wound on his friend’s temple but Aramis was startled by the action and pushed d’Artagnan away from him with both hands.

 

Immediately, overwhelming signals of agony shot to the young man’s brain as the bones of his broken arm ground together and nerve endings fired. His vision whited out for several seconds and he found himself on his backside, cradling the broken limb against him with his other arm. As his vision returned, bile rose in his throat and he barely managed to turn his head to the side before violently expelling the contents of his stomach. Panting at the force of his body’s reaction, it took d’Artagnan several minutes before he felt well enough to move, using the time instead to observe his friend who had started rocking again.

 

It was clear that Aramis’ head injury was causing him to be confused and the young man hoped that no other wounds were hiding beneath the man’s clothes. As this thought crossed his somewhat befuddled mind, he realized that his own clothes were rapidly turning damp from the snow and that Aramis’ clothes must be suffering the same fate. He recalled Porthos’ words that reminded him, “Damp clothes in these temperatures ‘ave killed even the strongest of men.”

 

Cursing softly under his breath, he determined to get them both off the ground and back up to the top of the rise where, hopefully, the horses would be waiting with their saddlebags of supplies. Pushing himself to his haunches, he positioned himself to Aramis’ side this time, hoping to avoid a similar fate to the last time he’d attempted to get the man’s attention. “Aramis, can you hear me?”

 

The rocking stopped and Aramis lifted his head, clearly confused and unable to focus, he squinted in d’Artagnan’s direction. “Marsac?” he asked.

 

“No, Aramis, it’s d’Artagnan,” the Gascon waited for the man’s reaction, hoping that his friend’s confusion was only temporary.

 

“Who?” Aramis responded.

 

“d’Artagnan,” the young man paused, “I’m one of the new recruits.” His words had the desired effect as Aramis gave a slight inclination of his head in understanding and remained calm. d’Artagnan licked his lips as he considered how to continue. “You’ve hurt your head and I need to know if you have any other injuries.”

 

Aramis raised a shaky hand to his head, wincing as his gloved hand touched the bloody knot at his temple. “I have?” he questioned wearily.

 

The Gascon guided his hand down, grateful when his friend allowed the action. “Do you hurt anywhere else?”

 

Several moments passed and finally Aramis breathed out a quiet reply, “No.”

 

d’Artagnan dropped his head in relief, “Good, that’s very good.” Considering his next move, he decided that it was time to get them both standing and back to their horses. “Can you stand?” After nearly a minute, his words had garnered no movement from his friend, so he tried again. “Aramis, if I help you, do you think you can stand up?” Still nothing.

 

Huffing in frustration, d’Artagnan resigned himself to simply pulling the man up and hoping that he’d be somewhat steady. He positioned himself with his uninjured right side next to Aramis, ducking under his friend’s left arm and grasping his belt with his right hand. With a deep breath, he pushed himself upwards, dragging his friend with him and propping them up both against the large tree while he waited to see if Aramis’ legs would hold him. It took several moments but Aramis finally seemed to realize he was upright and managed to take some of his own weight.

 

The Gascon was grateful when he felt some of his friend’s weight shift away from him, the effort of holding them both standing costing him dearly and sapping his already waning strength. Tugging at his friend’s belt, d’Artagnan managed to move them into a faltering walk, punctuated by stumbles and trips that made the Gascon wonder at the fact that they’d managed to remain upright. As he dragged them upwards, he could hear Aramis’ gasping breaths in his ear, realizing that his own breathing was just as harsh as they slipped and skidded up the slope in the snow.

 

Finally they stepped onto the top of the rise and d’Artagnan got his first look at the hill they’d fallen down, which was actually quite steep but misleading to the eye due to the trees that masked its edge. He was grateful to find Aramis’ horse also standing at the top, waiting patiently for its rider about fifteen feet away. His horse, unfortunately, was nowhere in sight and his heart sank at the thought that they would have to put both their weights on the one horse and rely on the meager supplies in his friend’s saddlebags. The Gascon doubted he could haul Aramis’ weight to the steed and decided to lower him to the ground instead so that he could collect the horse on his own. As he lowered his friend, he noted the half-lidded eyes and unfocused stare, and could hear the man mumbling nonsensically under his breath. Clearly, his friend’s senses had deserted him again.

 

Grimacing in pain, d’Artagnan braced his broken arm as he trudged through the knee-deep snow, gathering the reins of Aramis’ horse. He led it back to where Aramis still sat, hoping that his friend would be aware enough to help him change into some dry clothes. “Aramis, I need your help.”

 

The Gascon was rewarded with a vacant stare, his friend’s murmuring stopping as he looked upwards. “Aramis, you’re wet from the snow and you need to change into dry clothes.” The young man repressed another shudder from the cold, “My arm’s broken and I need your help.”

 

“Help,” Aramis whispered, “I wasn’t able to help any of them.”

 

“Aramis, please,” the young man pleaded, bending forward and tipping the other man’s chin so he was forced to make eye contact. “We need to get warm.”

 

“Warm,” the man latched onto the word, seeming to understand, and made motions to rise.

 

d’Artagnan laid a hand on his shoulder preventing the action, awkwardly removing his cloak from around his shoulders and laying it on the ground. “Can you sit there and remove your boots and breeches?” he asked. Clumsily, Aramis did as he was asked and d’Artagnan returned to the saddlebags to pull out a dry pair of breeches and a dry cloak. The only other clothing Aramis had brought was a fresh shirt, which the Gascon left for now. The young man did his best to help Aramis slide his feet into his breeches, watching him lift his hips so he could pull them up to his waist, where he fumbled at the laces with gloved hands. Finally he had accomplished the task and seemed content to sit there, but d’Artagnan cajoled him to pull his boots on next, lastly removing the man’s wet cloak and replacing it with the dry one he’d found.

 

“Well done, Aramis,” he praised as he stood and closed his eyes for a moment, regaining control over his pain. He extended a hand to his friend, encouraging him to stand. “Aramis, take my hand. We need to get you on your horse.”

 

Not sure why his friend continued to listen to him, but thankful for the fact, he clasped the other man’s arm tightly and pulled him to his feet. Aramis stumbled into the Gascon as he battled a wave of dizziness and the young man bit his lip hard to prevent himself from crying out as his arm was jostled.  

 

As Aramis steadied himself, the Gascon led him to his horse, placing his friend’s hand on the saddle and lifting his foot to the stirrup. With a gentle push, Aramis seemed to realize what was expected of him and pulled himself up, swaying a little to sit bent over his horse’s neck.

 

d’Artagnan took a moment to pick up the discarded clothing and to settle his cloak back over his shoulders, shivering at its dampness. He knew that he would not be able to pull himself into the saddle without assistance and prayed that his friend would still be aware enough to help. He replaced the clothes in the saddlebag and put his hand on Aramis’ thigh to get his attention. When his friend looked blearily down at him, he offered his hand, saying, “I need you to pull me up to sit behind you.”

 

For several long seconds it seemed that Aramis would not be able to comprehend what was being asked of him until, finally, he reached across to take the young man’s hand in a weak grip. The Gascon placed his foot into the stirrup and ordered, “now,” pulling himself up as soon as he felt Aramis’ grip tighten against his own. His ascent was anything but graceful, but he’d accomplished his goal of getting them both onto the horse. Leaning around his friend, he grasped both reins in his right hand, leaving his arm around Aramis to offer him some small measure of support as he turned the horse and they retraced their path back to town. 

* * *

They had been riding for nearly three hours, stopping twice to visit two of the farms on their list of potential hiding spots, when Porthos pointed to the sky. “Weather’s moving in. We’d best turn back now if we want to beat it back.”

 

Athos looked up but to him the sky seemed as gray as it had earlier in the day; fortunately he had learned to trust Porthos’ instincts for bad weather, his advice having saved them from being caught unaware many times in the past. He nodded in acknowledgement and they turned their horses back to town.

 

“Think they had better luck?” Porthos queried. He received a shrugged response, the older man still quiet after his earlier confession. “Bet they’ll beat us back. d’Artagnan seems to have an even keener sense for the weather than me.” It was true; the Gascon invariably predicted rain, snow and sunshine with nearly perfect accuracy, no doubt thanks to his years of living on the farm.

 

Now that he’d had some time to reflect, Athos was feeling guilty at the way that he’d been treating his friends and especially d’Artagnan; it was not the boy’s fault, after all, that his presence this year was a constant reminder of his brother, making the year’s anniversary even more difficult than in the past. He’d seen the hurt and disbelief in the boy’s eyes when he’d ordered him to accompany Aramis and knew that the boy was already feeling badly about the angry words they’d traded earlier in the week. Unfortunately, Athos’ thoughts and emotions had been controlling him as his brother’s birthday approached and he was mortified to realize that he’d experienced profound satisfaction at putting the boy in his place.

 

Perhaps the coming storm was a blessing in disguise, allowing them all to return early so Athos might apologize to the boy. With his brothers’ support, he might even be able to share his story with Aramis and d’Artagnan, to alleviate some of the worry he seemed to be causing them. With these thoughts, Athos’ mood lightened considerably as he looked forward to getting back to the inn as quickly as possible.

 

Despite the fact that they made good time, returning to the inn a scant two hours after they’d turned around, they had still been caught in the heavily falling snow, which had made the last part of their journey difficult, obscuring nearly all of the landmarks upon which they relied to find their way. Fervently hoping their brothers had beaten them back, they entered the inn’s common room where a blazing fire pushed back the cold from outside. Shaking snow from themselves, they made their way to a table close to the heat, removing their cloaks and draping them across the fireplace hearth to dry.

 

Looking around at the few people sitting at various tables around the room, Porthos remarked, “I really thought they’d beat us back.”

 

Athos grunted, having had the same thought and squashing down the concern that threatened to flare.

 

Availing themselves of the innkeeper’s hospitality, they ate a late lunch and had finished their first bottle of wine when Porthos motioned to the window. “It’s getting worse out there.” Worse was an understatement. While the two men had been eating, the wind had picked up, now driving the quickly falling snow down almost sideways, and they could hear the howling and creaking as the building was buffeted by the elements outside.

 

“They should be back by now,” Porthos stated, the normally jovial man suddenly serious with worry.

Athos wasn’t sure how to respond. Porthos was right – they _should_ have been back by now. Even if they had waited for the snow to start falling, enough time had passed that they would have reached the inn. His thoughts were assaulted by the many things that could have prevented their return, the most terrifying among them being that they were wandering around lost and unable to find their way; but surely the two men were far too experienced for that to happen. He knew that Aramis had weathered such storms in the past, knowing that it was best to seek shelter and wait until the snow passed. The Gascon must have learned similar lessons from hunting in the woods around his home – if you were lost, stay still and wait for rescue to find you.

 

It seemed that he had been silent too long, and Porthos was now looking at him in concern, calling his name. “Sorry, my thoughts ran away with me. If they’re not back yet, they’ve certainly taken shelter somewhere to wait out the storm. We’ll have to wait here until it passes.”

 

Porthos nodded uneasily, recognizing the truth in his friend’s words but chafing at their inability to do anything while the storm raged on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan felt some small measure of warmth where his and Aramis’ bodies draped over one another, but the sensation drifted from cold and numb to nearly unfeeling from his waist to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly grateful to all of the folks who have spent their time reading this story and those who have decided to leave kudos and comments.

It had started with a few snowflakes, which might have been considered pretty to look at if not for the fact that d’Artagnan was shivering almost constantly. Aramis had managed to stay somewhat awake and aware for the first part of their ride, but had eventually slumped back against the Gascon with his head resting on the young man’s shoulder. The position was not wholly unwelcome as it gave the young man some welcome relief from the wind, but each step the horse took jostled Aramis against him, bringing tears to his eyes as his broken arm was continuously jarred. But without Aramis’ help, there was no way he could safely reposition the man, so he kept a firm hold on his bottom lip, stifling the moans that each step threatened to pull from him.

 

The storm had worsened quickly and the Gascon estimated that they were at least two hours away from the inn when the winds picked up. They had ridden slowly that morning when they had set out, but that was nothing compared to the pace they kept now with an overburdened horse and a rider who was struggling to keep them both in the saddle. Even after the snow picked up, d’Artagnan was able to see their tracks for a time, and he doggedly put his head down and kept the horse moving forward; but the intensity of the winds had now wiped away the last of their trail and the young man was hesitant to continue on, lest they get hopelessly lost.

 

Taking another look around, he resigned himself to the fact that they would have to stop and seek shelter, waiting out the storm before they could safely find their way back. Fortunately, they remained at the edge of the woods and d’Artagnan knew this was their best option to get out of the wind. Nudging Aramis’ shoulder he woke the man enough to get him to lean forward so he could slide off the horse’s back. A whimper escaped him as his feet hit the ground, and he held himself against the side of the horse for a moment before he was ready to move. Taking the horse’s reins, he entered the woods, moving several feet in until the wind’s effects were significantly diminished. He spotted a great pine tree that had a large hollow at its base and sweeping branches above and to either side, forming an almost natural windbreak.

 

Removing both his and Aramis’ wet cloaks, he managed to tie them securely to the branches on either side of the hollow, forming a v-shape above and around them like two walls of a tent. Next, he pushed and pulled on some of the low-hanging branches until he’d managed to remove four large ones, heavy with pine needles, which he placed at the base of the hollow to protect them from the snow on the ground. Aramis had remained on the horse this entire time, but was now slumped forward with his chest on the horse’s neck, arms hanging limply to either side.

 

d’Artagnan slogged over to the horse, poking and pulling on his friend’s arm for nearly a minute before he was greeted with two groggy eyes as Aramis rolled his head towards him. “Aramis, we must get you down from the horse and sheltered.” Aramis blinked at him slowly, seemingly uncomprehending as his eyes tried to close again. “No, Aramis, you must stay awake,” the Gascon’s voice carried an urgency that managed to cut through the fog in his friend’s brain as the older man began to clumsily make motions to dismount. Unprepared for him to act so quickly, the Gascon braced himself as Aramis fell toward him, catching him with his one good arm before landing on the ground underneath his friend.

 

A cry was torn from d’Artagnan’s lips and his chest heaved with the agony in his arm as he lay beneath his friend who apparently wasn’t aware enough to understand the pain he was causing. “Please,” the Gascon beseeched breathlessly, “Aramis, you must get up.” To emphasize his point, d’Artagnan pushed at his friend’s back, and after several long moments, Aramis finally rolled off of him. The two men lay there on the snowy ground, one completely unaware of the danger of their situation and one lacking the strength to move. d’Artagnan rolled his head to look at Aramis and saw him staring blankly at the sky above them, barely blinking as the snow continued to fall on them. For several seconds the young man found himself mesmerized by the large flakes and his limbs grew heavy and lethargic.

 

“No!” he shook himself from his stupor. Falling asleep in the snow led only to a certain death and d’Artagnan was determined that they would survive their time in the storm. Painstakingly, he rolled to his side and began the arduous process of righting himself, knowing that he had little energy left to do what was needed to keep them safe. Standing, he reached down and took Aramis’ gloved hand in his, calling to his friend to get up and pulling the man to his feet. Grasping his friend’s arm, the Gascon pushed him inside the shelter he’d built, the other man laying down immediately to curl up on his side. d’Artagnan returned to the horse, removing the saddlebags and their weapons and loosening the girth strap on the saddle to make the horse more comfortable. He hesitated to tie the horse given the harsh conditions and ultimately left its reins loose, praying that the animal would survive their time in the forest and still be there when they were ready to leave.

 

Carrying their meager supplies to their make-shift tent required two trips and when he was finished, d’Artagnan dropped to his knees inside the lean-to, waiting a moment before he could steady himself. Aramis seemed to be asleep again and the young man crawled in next to him, placing a hand on his cheek to feel the cool skin there. They had no wood for a fire but they needed to stay warm so the Gascon roused his friend once more, thankful that he was still compliant, and positioned himself as close to Aramis as possible, pulling his friend’s arm across his chest. d’Artagnan would have liked to remove his wet breeches, but the thought of moving his broken arm to accomplish the task overwhelmed him. Instead, he covered them both with the dry cloak; it wasn’t much, but it would have to do and, despite the fact that d’Artagnan knew they needed to stay awake, he no longer had the strength to do so. 

* * *

The storm had lasted well into the night as the two friends sat impotently waiting for it to end. When it finally did, it was well past midnight and clouds still obscured the moon; outside the area was blanketed in inky darkness that their lanterns could barely penetrate.

 

Pacing in frustration, Porthos had wanted to leave as soon as the snow had abated but Athos had prevented him from going, wisely pointing out that they could see no more in the black of night than they could in the earlier white-out conditions. The two men finally retired to their rooms, agreeing to get a few hours of sleep before setting out at first light to find their brothers. Porthos was unsurprised when Athos brought two bottles of wine with him as they departed for their rooms, guessing that neither of them was likely to sleep much while their friends were missing.

 

Morning seemed to take forever to arrive, and with the sun’s first rays, the Musketeers were already saddling their horses. They stuffed their saddlebags full with extra provisions, including the addition of two thick blankets from the inn and all the extra clothes they’d brought with them. Unless their friends had managed to wait out the storm at one of the farms they’d visited, their situation could very well be dire. When both men were satisfied that they’d prepared as well as they could, they mounted and headed away from the inn, following the path they’d taken the previous morning. Fortunately, where the prior day was gray and gloomy, today was promising sunshine and blue skies. However the storm had done its damage and as the men rode away, neither needed the other to point out that the previous day’s trails had been completely erased and they had no way to track their brothers’ other than to retrace the men’s route. 

* * *

The hours crawled slowly, d’Artagnan drifting off to sleep without realizing only to be startled awake by the pain in his arm as the two men lay shivering. Part of the young man’s brain reminded him that it was a good thing that they still shivered, but another part wanted desperately for the endless contraction of their muscles to stop so he could have even a moment’s relief from the ache in his arm. On several occasions now it had been Aramis’ restlessness that had woken him, the man intermittently mumbling words too softly for d’Artagnan to understand, or tossing his head as he slept. The Gascon had prodded him awake a few times to ensure his friend’s head wound hadn’t worsened, but was disheartened by the fact that Aramis still didn’t recognize him or remember what had happened.

 

They passed the short daylight hours in this fashion, slipping silently into night, which d’Artagnan was only dimly aware of when he could no longer see anything inside of their shelter. The wind continued to howl and buffet their thin walls mercilessly, allowing frigid gusts of air to make their way inside to deepen the men’s misery. d’Artagnan felt some small measure of warmth where his and Aramis’ bodies draped over one another, but the sensation drifted from cold and numb to nearly unfeeling from his waist to his feet. The lack of feeling in his toes had him pushing himself up, remembering Porthos’ warnings, “Keep yer boots on if you’ve no other way of warming yer feet, but take them off from time to time to rub the warmth back into yer toes.” Rubbing required one more hand that he currently had available, so he settled for pulling both their boots off and clasping their feet, one at a time, in his hand until some of the pinkness returned and he could feel the blood returning. Then he struggled to redress them and resumed his position next to Aramis, reveling in the slight warmth their bodies generated.

 

The next time he awoke, there was daylight and d’Artagnan could clearly see the inside of their small space. It was quiet outside, meaning that the storm had passed, and they’d be able to find their way back to the inn. Although exhausted by the night of shivering and pain, he managed a small grin at the thought that they’d be safe and warm later that day. It was then that he noticed he was alone, and his heart stuttered with fear at the sight of his missing friend. Pushing himself as quickly as he was able, d’Artagnan crawled out of their tent and stood, looking in awe at the amount of snow that had fallen around them. The pristine snow was broken only by a man’s boot prints and the Gascon struggled to follow them out of the woods and into the adjacent field where they’d ridden the day before. He was shocked to find his friend sitting at the base of a tree, looking out at the open area in front of him and rocking himself back and forth.

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan stuttered through chattering teeth as he approached. As he drew closer, he realized that the man had left the tent clad only in his shirt, breeches and boots, all of which were now most likely damp with the snow. Cursing himself for his lack of attention to his friend’s dire situation, the Gascon lowered himself to his haunches, placing a hand on Aramis’ knee.

 

“Aramis, can you hear me?” he asked softly.

 

At the boy’s touch, the Musketeer raised his head, a look of anguish on his face.

 

“Can’t be here…thought I’d left…back again…can’t be here,” the words tumbled out and d’Artagnan strained to make sense of them.

 

“It’s alright Aramis, I’ll get us back to the inn today,” the Gascon assured his friend.

 

“No,” Aramis cried, desperately grabbing the front of the young man’s doublet. “They’re all dead,” his gaze moved to the snow behind d’Artagnan, “don’t you see them laying there?”

 

d’Artagnan’s heart clenched, heartsick at the fact that Aramis had suffered another head wound in the snow, causing him to recall his time in Savoy. “No, my friend,” he placed his hand on Aramis’ cheek, “this is not Savoy and no one has died. You’re just confused because you fell off your horse yesterday and hit your head.”

 

At his words, Aramis raised a shaky hand to his head, feeling the tender knot that sat on his temple. “But the snow…” he trailed off, looking beseechingly at the young man.

 

“It’s wintertime, Aramis, but it’s France, not Savoy,” the Gascon replied firmly. The older man seemed to take some comfort in his friend’s words, loosening his grip on d’Artagnan’s doublet. Taking this as a positive sign, the young man asked, “Can you stand?”

 

Not willing to wait for an answer while out in the freezing cold, the Gascon ducked his shoulder underneath his friend’s arm and pulled the man to his feet, urging him to walk as soon as he was steady. d’Artagnan had no idea how long Aramis had sat in the snow, but he moved stiffly, barely managing to put one foot in front of the other. The young man pushed his friend back into the tent, forcing uncooperative arms into his doublet and then wrapping Aramis with their dry cloak. Straightening, he backed out of the shelter again and was gladdened to see their horse standing a few feet away. He knew the animal would be no happier about the night in the woods than they were, but its presence made it possible to get them both back to town in a relatively short amount of time.

 

Approaching the animal, d’Artagnan made sure not to startle the horse as he gathered the reins and walked it back to their tent. Next, he gathered their belongings and reattached them to the horse, groaning unhappily when he discovered that their water had frozen overnight. Aramis still sat where he’d been placed, huddled into the cloak and shivering badly. With coaxing, d’Artagnan pulled his friend to his feet and they repeated their actions from the previous day to get them both mounted.

 

The Gascon gratefully turned the horse to exit the forest and oriented himself as they stood at its edge. Spotting a familiar landmark, the young man dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and they began their slow journey back. 

* * *

The farms that d’Artagnan and Aramis had been sent to yesterday would have taken them in a semi-circular path, with the last farm on their list placing them closest to town. Thinking that their brothers would have made it to at least the second farm, at which point the path ahead of them would have been shorter than the one behind them, Athos and Porthos decided to follow the men’s route in reverse. Several hours later found them at the last farmhouse – the first that d’Artagnan and Aramis would have visited – with no sign of their missing friends. They were especially surprised to find out that the men hadn’t even made it to their first stop, suggesting that something had happened to them even before the storm struck.

 

These thoughts conjured images of their friends running across the prisoners they’d been seeking; of being captured or injured or worse by the desperate men they had been sent to apprehend. Athos unconsciously spurred his horse to go faster, Porthos following eagerly, consumed by similar fears for his friends’ wellbeing. It was nearing mid-day when they found the first signs of life – a set of tracks leading away from the edge of the forest. Porthos squinted at the snow, pointing to the trail, “There’s only one set of tracks. There should be two.”

 

The lack of a second set of tracks made the two men uncertain they’d found their friends’ trail and Athos dismounted, handing his reins to Porthos, as he set off to follow the trail back into the woods. As he approached, he found another set of tracks, these made by boots and leading to the base of a tall tree. Squatting down on his haunches, he examined the spot where the snow was compressed as if sat upon. Standing, he returned to his original goal and moved carefully through the woods until he spotted a flash of blue. Ahead of him he saw two cloaks, unmistakably belonging to the Musketeer regiment, and his heart leapt at the discovery as his feet quickened to carry him forward. Parting the cloaks, he bent forward to look inside and was devastated to find the space empty.

 

He turned to make his way back to Porthos, wondering at the fact that the cloaks had been left and why only one horse had exited the woods. Athos gave a quick shake of his head at Porthos’ questioning gaze, gathering the reins from his friend and mounting his horse. “It looks like they made a shelter using their cloaks, but it’s empty now.”

 

“That probably means they’re headed back to the inn,” Porthos suggested hopefully.

 

Athos hoped the same and they turned their horses to follow the trail they’d discovered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tableau was both gruesome and touching at the same time. Both men were as still as death and ice particles had frosted their hair and eyebrows, painting them white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your great comments on this story. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

The sun reflecting off the snow caused d’Artagnan to squint and wish for a hat with which to shade his eyes. He barely managed to stay upright and found himself more than once slumped over the back of his friend who was again pressed against the neck of their horse. When Aramis had settled there, the Gascon had covered his friend with the cloak, hoping that the older man might warm from being in this sheltered position.

 

d’Artagnan was exhausted and his eyes burned both from lack of sleep and from the relentless brilliance of the snow around them. His throat was parched and his lips cracked, the lack of water they’d consumed as a result of the frozen water skin adding to his despair. He was no longer aware of the landmarks around them and hoped that the horse’s sense of direction was surer than his own, as he lacked the energy to do anything more.

 

At least the shivering had relented, diminishing to the occasional tremble, but lacking the previous ferocity that caused the broken bones in his arms to grate. d’Artagnan was grateful for the reprieve as his arm had become comfortably numb, interrupted only by the intermittent shivers that racked his frame. Unknown to him, the young man began to slip forward again, coming to rest against his brother’s back. For several seconds he lay there, eyes closed, shallow puffs of air appearing from his mouth as his warm breath met the cold temperatures that surrounded them. In the next instant, the peace was broken as Aramis pushed himself violently upwards, throwing his head back and striking d’Artagnan’s face in the process. Still tangled in the horse’s reins, the Gascon fell from the horse, inadvertently pulling his friend with him as he fell.

 

Aramis was struggling to stand and hurling obscenities at him, while d’Artagnan lay dazed, trying to understand what had happened. As the Gascon managed to roll to his side, Aramis gained his feet. “Murderer, you killed them all!” Aramis shouted, stepping forward to clumsily land a kick to the young man’s side. “I’m the only one left,” another kick punctuated his cry, “There was no honor,” he kicked again, “no honor.”

 

d’Artagnan struggled for breath as Aramis fell to his knees, the blows to his ribs having emptied his lungs and reawakened the pain in his arm. “Aramis,” he wheezed, stretching a hand towards his friend, “it’s alright.” He panted again for breath. “Not Savoy, Aramis, it’s not Savoy.”

 

Aramis stared across the snow, slumping to sit beside d’Artagnan, allowing the young man to take his hand. “Not Savoy,” he mumbled.

 

“Not Savoy,” the Gascon repeated as he held his friend’s hand and closed his eyes, no longer possessing the strength to get them back on the horse. It was in this position that their friends eventually found them. 

* * *

The silence stretched as their horses moved them across the seemingly endless sea of white, both men lost in their own thoughts about what had delayed their friends the day before. Athos pulled up hard on his horse’s reins, mesmerized by the sight before them. Straight ahead stood a lone horse, still saddled, a cloak blowing off to one side when it was caught by a gust of wind. Several feet away they could see that the snow was disturbed and two man-shaped lumps lay unmoving. Gasping at the sight, Athos swung from his horse, struggling to cross the knee-deep snow that separated him from his brothers. Behind him he could hear Porthos’ deep breaths as he raced to catch up.

 

The tableau was both gruesome and touching at the same time. Both men were as still as death and ice particles had frosted their hair and eyebrows, painting them white. They could see blood on Aramis’ face, trailing from his temple and along his jaw, standing out in stark contrast against the almost gray of his skin. He’d obviously been sitting at one point but was now tipped forward, head resting on d’Artagnan’s chest, their hands clasped tightly together as a symbol of their strong bond.

 

Athos’ breathing hitched at the sight of his friends, his brothers, in such a state. Thank goodness for Porthos’ steady presence as the man stepped forward to lay his cheek at the men’s mouths, searching for breath. “They’re alive!” he exclaimed, moving immediately to lift Aramis from his position so they could check for other injuries.

 

Porthos’ words moved Athos from his stupor and he knelt in the snow at d’Artagnan’s head, cupping his cheek with one hand while his other wiped the moisture from his own eyes. “Athos, we must make haste,” Porthos prompted him, “There’s no tellin’ how long they’ve been out here and they’re cold as ice.”

 

Athos nodded, beginning a quick examination of the boy beside him, noting the left hand inside his doublet and feeling the misshapen arm even within its sleeve. “The boy’s arm is broken, but I see nothing else obvious,” Athos informed his friend.

 

“The only thing I’ve found is the knot on Aramis’ head,” Porthos replied, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how this happened.”

 

“There will be time for questions later. Now, we must get them onto the horses and back to the inn so we can warm them properly.” As he spoke, Athos was lifting d’Artagnan’s upper body off the snow in preparation to get him onto the horse. He glanced at Porthos, asking, “Can you manage Aramis if I ride behind the boy?”

 

Porthos gave a quick nod, already lifting his friend off the cold ground and placing his boneless body onto the back of his horse. Once he had Aramis situated, he shook out one of the blankets they’d brought and laid it over top of him, before securing the reins of the third horse so they could bring it back with them. Athos had accomplished a similar feat and now had a tightly bundled d’Artagnan leaning against his chest, wrapping one arm around the boy to keep his limp body in the saddle.

 

Porthos mounted his horse and positioned Aramis similarly against his chest and the two men hurried, as much as the conditions would allow, to return to the relative comfort of their accommodations. When they arrived, they handed their horses off to the stable boy, Porthos indicating the third mount and giving instructions that the horse would need extra water and feed. The two men carried their unconscious friends into the inn, Athos barking at the innkeeper as they passed, “Start boiling water and bring it up to my room. Don’t stop until I tell you.”

 

Porthos followed in his friend’s wake, adding “And get a physician here if you have one.”

 

The startled innkeeper took a moment to consider the orders he’d received and then turned to his helpers, sending his son for the physician while he and his daughter stoked the fire and set the first pot of water on to heat.

 

They went to Athos’ room, having discovered the other night that it was the warmest of them all and had the added advantage of having two beds. Placing their friends down, Porthos stoked their fire as Athos placed chairs beside both men’s beds. Athos sat down and began unwrapping the blanket from d’Artagnan’s body so that he could remove the boy’s wet clothes. Gently moving the injured left arm, Athos manoeuvered first one arm and then the other from the boy’s doublet, concern rising at the lack of response that came from handling the broken limb. He did the same with the boy’s shirt, rolling it up and over the boy’s head, gasping when he saw the bruised ribs underneath. The Gascon’s boots, stockings and breeches were next, followed by his braies when he discovered that even these were damp and cold. When he’d finished, Athos rewrapped the boy in the blanket and then added another on top, tucking it tightly around him.

 

Looking over at the other bed, Porthos was just doing the same with Aramis, laying a second blanket on top of the first in reaction to the man’s freezing skin. A knock at their door announced the arrival of the town’s physician who looked expectantly at the two men. “What happened to them?” he asked, already moving to examine d’Artagnan.

 

“We’re not certain, but they have been outside since yesterday,” Athos related. “The boy,” he pointed to d’Artagnan “has a broken arm and bruised ribs, and Aramis has a wound on his temple.” He looked to Porthos for confirmation that he’d found no other injuries and received a nod in reply.

 

The physician had unwrapped d’Artagnan’s upper body and was pressing on his ribs in an effort to identify any other broken bones. “You have water heating?” he asked as he worked.

 

“The innkeeper will bring it up when it’s ready,” Porthos replied.

 

The physician nodded, “Men this cold must be warmed slowly, otherwise the shock may be too great for their hearts to stand. Start by putting warm water into skins and placing them around the body. You can also heat stones in the fire and wrap them in cloth to warm their feet.” He moved to briefly examine the Gascon’s toes, motioning to their poor color. “Best get those stones heated right away.”

 

Porthos moved immediately to go find some stones for the fire while the physician moved to his next patient. “This the only wound?” he queried as he examined the cut at Aramis’ hairline.

 

“Yes, or rather, it’s the only one we’ve found,” Athos clarified.

 

The physician completed his exam, checking on Aramis’ feet as well, and then delivered his instructions. “The most pressing need is to get them both warm. Use the water skins and heated stones as I’ve said, and we may be able to immerse them in a warm bath later tonight. In the meantime, their other injuries will need to wait. Once they’ve warmed up, the boy’s arm will need to be splinted. Keep an eye on it in the meantime so he doesn’t damage it further. One of his ribs is at least cracked, maybe broken; keep him still and you can wrap his chest later. The other one has a concussion but the cut on his head has already started to heal so there’s no need for stitches. They’ll both need plenty of fluids so pour as much tea and broth into them as you can manage.” The physician scratched his head, “If they last the night, there’s a good chance they’ll live.”

 

Porthos had returned to the room in time to hear the physician’s assessment of his friends’ condition and he informed the man confidently, “Oh, don’t you worry, they’ll live. Too stubborn to let something like this be their end.”

 

Athos thanked the man as he left, indicating his intention to return later to check on the progress of his patients. Porthos lifted his hands, indicating the bricks he held, “Innkeeper gave me these. Should be easy enough to heat and wrap them so we can warm their feet.” He placed them near the fire as he spoke. “First batch of water should be coming up soon as well.” As he finished speaking someone knocked on the door again; this time it was the innkeeper’s teenaged children, carrying water skins heated by their warm contents.

 

The boy offered the skins to Athos who had answered the door, explaining, “We’ve already filled these with the first of the hot water. There’s more on the boil now and we can swap these out for fresh ones once these have cooled.”

 

“Thank you,” Athos murmured, gratefully accepting the water skins and handing two off to Porthos. The men quickly unwrapped their patients, placing the water skins next to their bodies before replacing the blankets. The bricks heated quickly as well, and Porthos efficiently wrapped each in a towel, before they were positioned to warm the men’s feet.

 

They continued in this fashion for several hours and as d’Artagnan and Aramis slowly warmed, they progressed from stillness to shivering, their faces slowly regaining some of the colour they’d lost after being exposed the cold for such an extended period of time. The physician had returned as well and commented on the men’s steady improvement, advising that they continue caring for their friends in the same manner throughout the night.

 

As the evening wore on, Athos and Porthos began feeling the effects of the previous sleepless night and the hours spent worrying and caring for their friends. When Athos nearly tripped over his own feet as he moved between the fireplace and d’Artagnan’s bed, Porthos clasped his arm firmly, saying, “Enough. One of us can manage at this point and we both need some sleep.” Athos looked like he was about to protest, but Porthos wasn’t about to let him. “Once they’re awake they’ll be a handful and we’ll both need to be well-rested. In the meantime we can take it in shifts.” Porthos had pushed his friend to d’Artagnan’s bed as he’d spoken and now asked, “Bed, floor or chair?”

 

Athos looked at his friend, lips quirking slightly at Porthos’ protective behaviour and said, “Chair.” Allowing Athos to seat himself, Porthos poured him a glass of wine and waited for him to drain it before he took the glass away and replaced it on the table. “Now sleep,” he ordered. Athos placed his feet on the edge of d’Artagnan’s bed, crossing his legs at the ankles, and tipped his head back as he closed his eyes. Porthos was glad to see that for once his friend had been able to drop off relatively quickly, a feat that often eluded him unless aided by copious amounts of wine.

 

Midnight passed and still things remained quiet. Porthos was now struggling to stay awake and was preparing to wake his friend when he saw movement from Aramis’ bed. Moving closer to confirm what he thought he’d seen, he watched Aramis’ lips move as he softly murmured under his breath, too softly for Porthos to understand his words. Porthos pulled back a corner of the blankets that covered his friend, and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, pleased when the skin felt merely cool rather than icy as it had before. Squeezing his friend’s shoulder, Porthos tried to wake his friend.

 

“Aramis, you need to wake up now.” The murmuring continued, but the man showed no other signs of wakefulness. “Come on, Aramis, you’ve had us worried for hours now. Open those eyes for me so I know you’re alright.” Porthos placed his other hand on Aramis’ cheek, tapping it gently. “Aramis, my friend, please open your eyes for me.”

 

Aramis turned his head, attempting to move away from Porthos’ tapping hand, but Porthos was unwilling to let him drift away again. Cupping Aramis’ cheek instead, Porthos held his friend’s head steady, positioning his face towards his own.

 

“None of that now, my friend, you’ve been sleeping for far too long already,” he coaxed with a small smile. The bedridden man quieted and Porthos could see the struggle to lift overly heavy eyelids. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder again, “That’s the way, open those eyes for me, just for a bit.”

 

Finally, he was rewarded by the fluttering of eyelids and he looked into Aramis’ clouded and unfocused eyes. Porthos was overjoyed to see his friend awake at last and a broad grin split his face. “It’s good to see you my friend.”

 

Aramis looked at him without recognition and Porthos’ grin faltered as he realized that while Aramis might be awake, he was far from aware. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

 

Aramis seemed to consider the question for a long time before breathing out a weak answer, “Cold.” Porthos frowned at the response, immediately thinking to change the water skins or add another blanket, but paused when Aramis continued speaking. “The snow was so cold.”

 

Porthos brightened at the response, reconsidering his initial assessment of his friend’s awareness. “Yeah, snow is cold. O’ course, you and the boy were takin’ a nap in it when we found you. Probably not the best idea, ya know.”

 

“I thought they were sleeping at first, but they weren’t,” Aramis wheezed, causing Porthos to scowl again. “They were all dead, all of my brothers, gone.”

 

“Aramis, what are you talking about? No one died; we found you both and you’re gonna be fine,” Porthos countered.

 

“No, all dead in the snow,” Aramis nearly sobbed, his eyes drooping closed.

 

“Aramis,” Porthos tried again, “no one’s dead.” Aramis’ face had gone lax again and Porthos gently allowed the man’s head to turn back to a more natural position, realizing that he’d fallen asleep again. While he’d initially been thrilled to see Aramis awake, he was now greatly concerned at the man’s words. After Aramis’ experience in Savoy, winter was always a challenge, and Porthos now worried that his friend was reliving the terrible events as a result of his head wound.

 

Leaning back he let out a deep sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face as he considered how to help his friend if he was in fact trapped in his memories of Savoy. Glancing at Athos he was surprised to find two piercing blue eyes looking back at him. “Didn’t realize you were awake,” he began. “How much did you hear?”

 

“Enough,” Athos stated as he sat up in his chair, replacing his feet on the ground. “He believes himself back in Savoy.” Porthos nodded sadly.

 

“You think it’s because he hit his head?” Porthos asked hopefully.

 

“A logical conclusion. There’s a good chance that as he heals, his mind will clear again,” Athos assured him. Noticing his friend’s weariness, he suggested, “Why don’t you get some sleep now?”

 

Porthos nodded and made to move away from Aramis’ bed, but Athos’ words stopped him. “I believe that it might be prudent for one of us to stay with Aramis until his head clears, and he always rested more easily with one of us beside him after Savoy.”

 

Porthos smiled gratefully at his friend’s intuitiveness and removed his boots before laying down next to his friend, placing one arm across the man’s waist.

 

Once Athos was certain that his friend was asleep, he turned his attention back to the Gascon who seemed in no hurry to follow their other brother’s example of waking. Athos pulled the blankets away from d’Artagnan’s body, checking the warmth of the skins that rested there. Finding them still satisfactory, he touched each of the boy’s hands confirming that they were warmer than before, although his left was decidedly cooler than the right. Bundling him in the blankets again, Athos moved to the boy’s feet, checking that they were a more healthy color than before, as was his face. But despite these improvements the boy remained stubbornly unconscious and unaware of his surroundings.

 

As Athos sat at the Gascon’s side, he placed a hand on the boy’s head, stroking it gently. He thought back to the events of the past twenty-four hours, beginning with his harsh orders that d’Artagnan accompany Aramis instead of the two riding together. At the time it had been oddly satisfying to see the surprise on the boy’s face as he’d ordered him away, exerting his authority for own desires – something he swore he would never do. He knew that the boy would never question him, being far too loyal to point out his poor behaviour, and he’d taken advantage of the boy’s good nature.

 

When he and Porthos had realized that their brothers were missing, Athos’ guilt at his earlier actions had nearly paralyzed him, fearing, selfishly, that he might not have the opportunity to explain and apologize to the boy for his bad behaviour as of late. These feelings had driven him to drink steadily, albeit not as heavily as previous nights, knowing that a clear head would be needed in the morning so they might go in search of their friends. His fear and frustration had grown in equal parts as he and Porthos had travelled from one farm to the next, unable to find their friends. While a part of him grew more worried with each negative response from the houses they visited, another part of him was angry at the fact that the men had not completed their task. This latter emotion shocked him and he wondered why his normally even temper and patience with the boy had so suddenly and completely deserted him.

 

Finding the two men in the snow, half-frozen and, truthfully, looking dead, all of Athos’ early emotions had fled replaced by the one overwhelming desire to have a last chance to explain and redeem himself to his friends. He had nearly cried at Porthos’ announcement that their brothers still lived and, at that moment, he made a promise that he would do whatever was needed to nurse them back to health and make amends for his earlier actions and severe words. He was startled from his reverie by a low moan and his hand stilled on the boy’s head as he waited for further signs of life. Several seconds passed with nothing more, so Athos left his hand in place on the boy’s head, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.

 

There it was again, just a quiet groan, but another sign that the Gascon might be waking. Continuing the motion of his thumb at the boy’s temple, Athos urged him to wake. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes for me.” Another low moan escaped and he could see the boy’s breathing begin to pick up. “I need to know that you’re alright and you’ve been asleep for far too long.”

 

Athos could see the effort the boy was making to open his eyes as his brow furrowed with the effort of dragging heavy lids upwards. He succeeded moments later and Athos was gratified to see the boy’s eyes clearly focusing on him. “Welcome back,” Athos said, waiting for the young man to orient himself. d’Artagnan parted his lips, licking the cracked and parched skin, and Athos acted quickly to raise the boy’s head and offer him a few sips of water.

 

“Aramis?” the boy asked in a thready voice.

 

“He’s alright,” Athos replied, motioning to the next bed, “asleep with his keeper.” The young man slowly turned his head, his lips quirking at the sight of this two friends bundled up together on the other bed.

 

Taking another breath, the Gascon struggled to speak, “Thought he was back in Savoy.” He broke off to swallow painfully and when Athos noticed his discomfort, he offered another drink of water. “He wandered out into the snow. Couldn’t stop him.” At his last words, the young man looked away from his mentor, shame clearly written on his face.

 

Unaware of what had transpired, Athos assured him, “I’m sure you did all you could.” The Gascon still looked away so the older man continued, “Clearly it was enough since you are both here now.”

 

“Tired,” the boy whispered and closed his eyes.

 

Athos frowned at the response, but reasoned with himself that the young man would, indeed, be exhausted by their ordeal and wanting to sleep was a natural reaction. At least he had awoken and was lucid; for now, that was enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should have some breakfast while we can. No tellin’ what’s in store for us when these two wake,” Porthos reminded. Athos knew how correct his friend was, each of them having cared for the others in the past due to injury or illness, and he motioned to Porthos to lead the way to the table where their breakfast waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments that have put a smile on my face and to those who continue to read and offer kudos. I've had a few requests to hurry up and post the next chapter, so here it is...enjoy!

By the time morning dawned, both men had warmed considerably, regaining their more natural color rather than the sickly paleness of the previous day. Porthos was still snoring peacefully next to Aramis, who also seemed to be better for having his friend close by. d’Artagnan hadn’t woken again but Athos was optimistic that he would once his body had rested sufficiently.

 

A knock at their door had Athos moving to answer, allowing the physician inside to check on his patients. Porthos had woken at the sound and was now disentangling himself from Aramis, so the man checked on d’Artagnan first.

 

“Hmm, he is much warmer this morning; you’ve done a good job with him. There’s no more need to use the water skins or stones, but we should probably wake him while we splint his arm.”

 

Athos looked concerned at the prospect of having his protégé awake for the painful process of splinting his broken arm and countered, “Would it not be easier on the boy if he were allowed to sleep instead?”

 

The physician shook his head explaining, “The risk of him waking and reacting badly is too great. We need him to be aware and I’ll need you to hold him while I complete the task.”

 

Nodding unhappily Athos laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, calling his name softly to wake him up. The young man was just as slow to open his eyes as he had been previously, but again focused on Athos as soon as he was awake. “The physician is here,” Athos inclined his head in the other man’s direction, “we need to splint your arm.” A frown appeared on d’Artagnan’s face as he considered the older man’s words. “I’m sorry, it will be painful.”

 

“I know,” the young man breathed out. Switching his gaze to the physician, he nodded to the man, “Do it.”

 

Porthos joined them at d’Artagnan’s bed, sitting at one end and placing a supportive hand on the man’s ankle. Athos positioned himself on the boy’s left side, putting both hands on his shoulder and upper arm so he wouldn’t be able to jerk away while the physician worked. With a last look at the Gascon, signalling his intent to begin, the physician began the process of splinting the boy’s arm. As soon as his forearm was touched, d’Artagnan gasped, heaving a stuttering breath and holding it against the pain.

 

“Breathe, d’Artagnan,” Athos’ steady voice coached him and he did his best to obey as he released the breath and managed to inhale and exhale, shuddering occasionally as his arm was jostled. By the time it was done, d’Artagnan was trembling, breaths still hitching as he panted against the fire in his broken limb. Porthos stood and wet a cloth, handing it to Athos so the man could wipe away the sweat on the boy’s face and neck.

 

The physician stood, asking, “How is your other friend this morning?”

 

Porthos chewed his lip, “Warmer, but confused. He woke up and didn’t know where he was.”

 

“That’s quite normal with a head wound. His wits should return as he heals.”

 

Porthos traded an uncertain look with Athos, the men anticipating that things wouldn’t be quite that simple, but the physician didn’t know Aramis’ history and there was no need to share the painful details with this man. “Did you manage to get anything into him when he woke?” the physician asked as he examined the head wound. Porthos shook his head in reply. “That must be your first concern then, to wake him and make sure he takes some water or broth.”

 

Porthos bit his lip at the prospect of dealing with his disoriented friend, but nodded in acceptance of the man’s advice. “There is nothing more I can do for him,” the physician stated as he stood. “Do you want to me to bind your other friend’s ribs before I go?”

 

Athos looked at d’Artagnan’s pain-filled face, knowing that the boy needed more time to regain his composure before being man-handled again. “No, it’s alright. We’ve all had experience with broken ribs in the past and have far too much practice at binding them.” Porthos grinned ruefully at his friend’s comment, agreeing wholeheartedly.

 

The physician nodded in understanding and bid the men good day as he left. Porthos looked over at his friend, seeing the man’s longing to speak with their younger brother. “Why don’t I see if I can get us some breakfast and some broth for d’Artagnan?” Porthos offered.

 

Athos nodded absent-mindedly, his thoughts already on the Gascon and how he might begin to apologize for his recent actions. As Porthos slipped from the room, Athos turned to face the young man, noting his tightly closed eyes and breathing that was both too shallow and quick. “Slowly, d’Artagnan, slow, full breaths.” The older man placed a hand lightly on the boy’s chest, grounding him with both his words and his touch. Nearly a minute passed during which time d’Artagnan managed to slow his breathing, his face relaxing as the pain he’d endured began to ease.

 

“Much better,” Athos praised, hoping the young man would open his eyes again. When it seemed the Gascon had other ideas, Athos prompted him, “You cannot fall asleep yet. Porthos is bringing you broth and we must bind your ribs.” A short nod was the only response he received. Inhaling deeply to steady his nerves, Athos began, “I wanted to speak with you about the events of the last week…”

 

Before he could say anymore, d’Artagnan’s eyes popped open and he pinned Athos with a serious stare. “I’m sorry. I know I overstepped and it won’t happen again.”

 

“No,” Athos started.

 

“I apologize for any discomfort my actions caused you.” With that, the Gascon’s eyes closed again, a grimace on his face, obviously struggling again to deal with the pain that speaking had caused him.

 

Drawing a breath so he could correct the Gascon’s assumptions, he was stopped short by Porthos’ return. “Got breakfast for us,” he said, placing a basket on the table, “and broth for our two patients.”

 

Athos rose to take one of the cups of broth, intending to assist d’Artagnan, when the young man spoke again. “Porthos, can you help me with it?”

 

Both men were surprised at the request but recovered quickly. “’Course I can, whelp. Athos, why don’t you see if you can wake Aramis and get him to drink the other cup?” Athos nodded and moved to Aramis’ bed to wake him, while Porthos sat the cup he was holding on the floor so he could help the young man sit up first. “Nice and slow now, and let me do all the work, alright?” At the Gascon’s nod, the larger man pulled him gently to an upright position, placing several pillows at his back before shifting his body backwards to sink into them. After giving the boy several seconds to adjust to his new position, he guided the cup to d’Artagnan’s lips, grinning at the scowl he received from the other man.

 

“I can do it,” d’Artagnan protested, raising his trembling right hand to grasp the cup. Porthos allowed him to wrap his fingers around it, keeping a hand on the cup as well to stabilize it. With the other man’s help, the Gascon managed nearly half the broth before he pushed it away weakly.

 

“How’s Aramis?” he looked at Porthos with concern.

 

“He’s warmed up nicely but still seems a bit confused,” Porthos admitted.

 

d’Artagnan placed his hand on Porthos’ arm, “I’m sorry. He didn’t know where we were and I couldn’t keep him from wandering into the snow.” The look of confusion on the larger man’s face made the Gascon continue. “In the morning after the storm had ended, I fell asleep,” he explained contritely. “Aramis, he wandered out into the snow and I didn’t realize.” His words ended with a huge yawn and Porthos could see how much his brief time awake had tired him.

 

“Don’t you worry ‘bout Aramis, he’ll be just fine.” Porthos squeezed his shoulder as he stood, removing one of the pillows from behind d’Artagnan’s back so he could lay in a more reclined position. “Now get some rest,” he ordered with a gentle smile. The Gascon obeyed immediately, eyes slipping closed even as Porthos was getting him settled.

 

Looking over at Aramis’ bed, Porthos saw that Athos hadn’t even tried to wake the other man yet, having been watching d’Artagnan instead. Walking over, he tried to reassure the man, “Don’t worry, he just needs some time to get over things.”

 

Athos looked unconvinced, knowing that Porthos hadn’t heard the words d’Artagnan had spoken earlier, and that things were likely to become more difficult before they improved. “Help me wake him?” Porthos asked.

 

Athos nodded and looked down at their sleeping friend, his features slack while he rested. With some trepidation, Porthos placed a hand on Aramis cheek so that he could make eye contact with him when he awoke, while Athos placed a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Aramis, we need you to wake up. Let me see those eyes that have all the ladies swooning.” Athos squeezed Aramis’ arm as Porthos spoke, hoping that the combination of their words and their touch would bring their friend from his slumber.

 

Several seconds passed before they saw the first signs of wakefulness, a twitching of the man’s lids followed by a frown on his face. “That’s it Aramis, I know you can do it. Just a few minutes and then you can go back to sleep,” Porthos cajoled. Their persistence was rewarded as a bleary gaze met Porthos’, causing the larger man to grin widely. “Hello there,” he said.

 

Aramis stared at his friend, not yet having taken notice of Athos, and opened his mouth to speak. “Where?” he breathed out.

 

“You’re back in town at the inn. Athos,” he motioned to the other man with his head, “and I found you yesterday, half frozen in the snow.” His grin slipped as he was reminded of the sight of his two friends slumped together in the snow. “How are you feeling?”

 

Instead of answering, Aramis turned his head to see Athos sitting on his other side, still with a warm hand on his arm. “Savoy?” he whispered.

 

Athos shook his head as he replied with as much sincerity as he could muster, “Not Savoy, my friend. Everyone is safe and no one died.”

 

Aramis seemed unconvinced but didn’t say anything more so Porthos leaned over his friend instead to raise his head slightly, while Athos brought the cup of broth to their friend’s lips. Aramis’ face clouded over at the smell and paled considerably, clearly struggling with concussion-induced nausea. Athos pulled the cup away. “Perhaps water would be a better choice for now?” he suggested to Porthos as he stood to switch the cup of broth with one filled with water. Aramis managed several sips of water before leaning away from the cup, Porthos helping him to lay his head back down.

 

“Alright?” Aramis asked as his gaze wandered between his two friends.

 

“Yeah, everyone’s fine,” Porthos said, clasping the man’s shoulder affectionately. At that, Aramis’ eyes closed and the two men were left looking at each other across the man’s chest.

 

“Well, what do you think?” Porthos questioned.

 

“Better. He seemed less confused although it’s surprising that he didn’t ask about d’Artagnan.”

 

Porthos nodded, having noticed the same thing. “Maybe he’s still too tired?” he offered.

 

“Perhaps,” Athos allowed. “Clearly we will need to stay here until they recover sufficiently to ride. We’re not expected for another week, but if they need more than a few days, one of us will need to return to Paris to advise Treville.”

 

Porthos nodded unhappily, not keen on the prospect of being separated from his brothers for any length of time. “Better not let them know that. They’re stubborn enough to try riding before they’re ready and I don’t want them to set themselves back.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked slightly at the thought of his strong-minded brothers. “Agreed.”

 

“We should have some breakfast while we can. No tellin’ what’s in store for us when these two wake,” Porthos reminded. Athos knew how correct his friend was, each of them having cared for the others in the past due to injury or illness, and he motioned to Porthos to lead the way to the table where their breakfast waited. 

* * *

After lulling them into a false sense of security with his nearly coherent behaviour earlier, Aramis proved to his friends that he was far from well within the hour, beginning with the nightmare that pulled him abruptly from a sound sleep and had him hanging off the side of the bed, gagging helplessly as his stomach emptied itself of the small amount of water he’d consumed. When he had finished, he whimpered in misery as Porthos levered him back onto his pillows and whispered words of comfort, while Athos brought over a damp cloth and a cup of water so the man could rinse his mouth from the foul taste of his sickness.

 

Porthos wiped the wet cloth over his friend’s face, still murmuring to him and keeping a hand on the man’s chest, feeling the too-rapid fluttering of his friend’s heart. When he’d finished, he traded the cloth for the cup that Athos held patiently and raised Aramis’ head slightly so he could rinse his mouth and then spit the soiled water into a bucket held by Athos’ hands.

 

Porthos brushed Aramis’ sweat-slicked bangs from his brow, asking “Aramis, are you alright?”

 

Another whimper escaped Aramis’ lips as he tried to focus on his friend’s face, and Athos strode quickly to the window, pulling the drapes closed to dim the light of the room. Porthos nodded his thanks to his friend as Aramis’ face seemed to relax minutely and he tried again, “Aramis, can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

 

Aramis’ hand reached blindly for his friend’s and Porthos gripped it tightly, sending a look of concern to Athos who stood at the foot of Aramis’ bed. Taking a shaky breath, Aramis finally spoke, “Left them to get picked at by the birds.” A sobbing breath escaped him, “Couldn’t keep them away.” Tears welled in Aramis’ eyes and he closed them as he fell silent, Porthos’ face mirroring the anguish being expressed by his injured brother.

 

Athos strode back to his brother’s side, leaning down to take Aramis’ other hand in his, “The fault was not yours, my friend, but that of the cowards who would attack a group of unarmed men in their sleep. You did nothing but bring honor to yourself and your brothers by surviving, for which Porthos and I are eternally grateful.”

 

The words seemed to calm the bed-ridden man and Porthos could feel the hand in his relaxing its grip. Worrying that Aramis would fall asleep again and had still had so little to drink, he reached for the cup of water again with his free hand, Athos moving automatically to lift Aramis’ head so he wouldn’t choke. After a few swallows, they allowed him to lay back, but Aramis didn’t seem ready to sleep. Instead, he looked at Athos with a peculiar look before he spoke. “Athos?” The older man looked at him inquiringly, waiting patiently for his friend’s next words. “I feel like there is something I’m forgetting, but have no idea what.”

 

Athos traded a look with Porthos, both men wondering if he was referring to d’Artagnan. Speaking delicately, Athos asked, “What do you remember of the events leading to your injury?”

 

Aramis’ brow creased as he tried to force his addled mind to remember what had happened. “Did I fall off my horse?” he finally questioned.

 

“Truthfully, we’re not certain what happened.” As Athos answered, he made a mental note to ask the Gascon for more details when he was next awake. “Is there anything else you can recall?”

 

Aramis hesitated, “I thought I had caught one of the men who attacked us.” At this, both Athos and Porthos looked up – had the men run into the prisoners they’d been seeking? “But, you said it wasn’t Savoy.” Aramis’ voice lowered as he finished, “I must have been confused.”

 

Aramis’ memories created more questions than they answered, but both men understood how clouded one’s mind could be after a hit to the head. Porthos squeezed his friend’s hand, saying “I’m sure it will all come back once you’re feeling better.” He could see the lines of pain that had returned to Aramis’ face and decided that the conversation had gone on long enough. “Does your head hurt?” A slight nod answered him. “Then sleep, my friend, we’ll be here.”

 

Aramis squeeze Porthos’ hand in return but refused to release it as he closed his eyes. Athos understood their friend’s need for touch and said nothing as he rose, speaking quietly, “Why don’t you sit with him for a bit while I check on our young Gascon.”

 

He moved to d’Artagnan’s bed and was surprised to find the young man awake and watching him as he seated himself in the chair next to the bed. “It’s good to see you awake again,” Athos offered with a slight lift of his lips. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Fine,” the young man seemed disinterested in discussing his own health and asked hurriedly, “How’s Aramis?”

 

Guessing that the young man had been awake for longer than he’d let on, he answered the boy’s question with one of his own. “How much did you hear?”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip before replying, “He doesn’t remember what happened.”

 

“No, he does not. Can you shed any light on why that might be?” Athos probed.

 

“He was thrown from his horse after it was spooked by mine. He rolled down a fairly steep incline and hit his head at some point.”

 

As answers went, this one was only partially satisfactory and Athos waited in silence, hoping the young man’s discomfort would prompt him to continue. The quiet stretched for several minutes, before the Gascon added, “It was my fault. I didn’t notice the edge of the rise and my horse slipped. Before I knew it my horse had startled and was struggling to regain its footing.” The young man paused again, breathing harshly, and Athos was reminded of the fact that they had still to bind the boy’s ribs to ease the pain.

 

“My horse had run off and our return trip was slowed by its loss. Then the storm came and I lost my way.” A grimace crossed the young man’s face as he almost panted with the effort of catching his breath.

 

Athos placed a hand on the young man’s arm, intending to comfort him, but pulled it away again when he saw the boy flinch at his touch. Trying to hide his hurt at the reaction, Athos said, “I’m certain nothing like this will happen again.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized they were not the words of assurance he had wanted to share, but instead sounded like he was blaming the young man for the situation.

 

The look that crossed d’Artagnan’s face let him know that the young man had sensed the same and, rather than comforting him, Athos had only succeeded in widening the rift that seemed to have appeared between the two. Searching for the right words to correct his mistake, Athos looked over at Porthos whose stricken look let him know that he’d also heard the blunder he’d made. Before he could say anything more, the young man started to struggle to a sitting position. “I’d like my ribs bound now.”

 

“Of course,” Athos answered automatically, a part of him relieved that the young man had broken the awkward silence. He rose to collect the linen he’d use to wrap the boy’s ribs, shaking his head minutely at Porthos who was obviously torn between going to Athos’ aid and remaining at Aramis’ side. As he returned to the young man’s bed, Athos asked, “May I help you sit up?” uncharacteristically wary of overstepping with the young man.

 

The Gascon was clearly unhappy at needing help, but gave a short nod at realizing that he would be unable to lift himself upright. Athos placed an arm behind the young man’s back and pulled him forward slowly, allowing the boy to adjust to his new position. Sitting on the bed, Athos moved slowly so d’Artagnan wouldn’t be startled by his actions and lifted the boy’s right arm, resting it on his shoulder in order to gain access to his side; his left arm was propped carefully beside him on top of two pillows. The Gascon winced at the movement but gave no other indication of the pain the movement had caused. Athos began wrapping the linen around the boy’s chest, ensuring that his side was firmly bound in order to stabilize his damaged ribs. When he was finished, Athos lowered the boy’s right arm and motioned to his left. Another nod from the Gascon had him fashioning a sling to support the broken limb before he helped the young man lean back against the pillows, noting the sheen of sweat on his face from the effort it had taken to remain upright. By the time that Athos had returned with a wet cloth, the Gascon’s eyes had slipped closed and he was again startled by the older man’s touch.

 

“Sorry,” Athos murmured as he wiped the boy’s face.

 

“S’fine,” d’Artagnan replied breathlessly and Athos noted the man’s shallow breathing.

 

“You must try to take fuller breaths.”

 

“I know,” d’Artagnan ground out, unsurprised at the look of anger that passed over Athos’ face at his words. Forcing himself to take a couple of deep breaths, he spoke, “Sorry, just hurts.”

 

Composing himself, Athos responded in a neutral tone, “Of course, completely understandable, I assure you. Water?”

 

At d’Artagnan’s nod, Athos filled a cup and allowed the boy to drink from it on his own, recognizing that his assistance would be unwelcome. Athos was pleased to see that the cup was empty when it was handed back. “Are you hungry?” The young man considered the question before shaking his head.

 

Athos was disappointed but didn’t pressure the boy. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

 

“No, just sleep.” d’Artagnan closed his eyes and turned his head away from his mentor, so Athos rose from his seat to stand next to Porthos.

 

Porthos looked up at his friend, seeing his distress. “You need to tell him, Athos,” Porthos told him softly, “before this gets any worse.” Athos placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder in acknowledgement of his words, but said nothing as he gazed at the young man who was causing him so much concern.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a week’s time they were due back in Paris and the Gascon would make sure he followed Athos’ every order to the letter, lest the man have him removed from their group. The loss of the man’s friendship was hard enough to accept and d’Artagnan only hoped that the man would allow him to continue going on missions with them so he could at least remain friends with the other two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there seems to be a general consensus from the last chapter that men are bad at talking about their feelings...not sure this chapter will do much to change that impression. Hope you enjoy!

d’Artagnan had laid quietly in his bed, listening to his brothers’ conversation with Aramis. It soon became apparent that Aramis’ mind was still as confused as before and, while it was good to see him awake, the young man worried that the delay in his care was contributing to the current situation. The Gascon had been surprised when he’d first awoken at the inn to find himself far warmer than before, and most importantly, not dead. His last memories were of the fall from the horse, when Aramis had attacked him, mistaking him for one of the men from Savoy. He had felt his ribs crack under the force of the other man’s blows and regret had laid bitterly on his tongue at the knowledge that he would be unable to save them both from freezing to death.

 

Each time he’d woken since, Athos had been there, spurring a surge of hope in the younger man’s chest that their friendship might still recover from their exchange of spiteful words; but when Athos brought up the last week’s events, he had apologized quickly, heading off another lecture from his mentor, which would only make the situation harder to bear. Knowing now that the bond between them was irreparably damaged, it had been easier to ask Porthos for help than to accept Athos’ assistance from any obligation the man felt towards him.

 

He heard the despair in the men’s voices when they were unable to help Aramis with his memories and resolved to tell them what had happened at the first possible opportunity. Telling the story to Athos had been as painful as he’d expected and he could sense the man’s disappointment increasing as the tale unfolded. When he’d finished, he had hoped his mentor might accept his words of apology as sincere, but that hope had been crushed when Athos confirmed his own fears that the situation was entirely his fault and could not be allowed to happen again. He hadn’t meant to flinch at the man’s touch, but at this point he was barely keeping his tears at bay, not wanting the man to think even more poorly of him than he already did.

 

He’d born the binding of his ribs stoically, understanding the need for Musketeers to be strong and brave, and then collapsed gratefully back onto the bed, nearly undone with the effort it took to contain his sounds of pain. He was grateful for the drink he’d been given, but refused food since his stomach churned both from the emotions of the past day and the agony that still coursed through his body. Asking to sleep had been a cowardly way of escaping further conversation, but he hadn’t known what else to do and felt too awful to think clearly.

 

Now he lay in his bed as his two friends watched over Aramis, and d’Artagnan promised he would do everything he could to help his friend heal. In a week’s time they were due back in Paris and the Gascon would make sure he followed Athos’ every order to the letter, lest the man have him removed from their group. The loss of the man’s friendship was hard enough to accept and d’Artagnan only hoped that the man would allow him to continue going on missions with them so he could at least remain friends with the other two. It was these thoughts that carried the Gascon into a troubled sleep, which was to be interrupted frequently as the day wore on.

* * *

The day passed slowly, Athos and Porthos exhausted by their vigil of watching over their brothers but unwilling to leave their sides. Porthos had dozed off for a bit, still holding Aramis’ hand, and Athos hadn’t had the heart to wake him, understanding the depth of their bond. Instead, he’d retired to sit at the room’s table where he had a view of the entire room. Although his friends would disapprove, he drank his way slowly but steadily through a bottle of wine as he contemplated their current situation.

 

Aramis seemed to be improving, even though he still woke confused and was clearly having difficulty separating his memories of recent events from those of Savoy. While concerning, Athos had no doubt that he and Porthos would help Aramis recover, just as they had done after Savoy. d’Artagnan was a different story. Physically, the young man had to be in a great deal of pain – broken limbs always ached in an abominable way that gave the injured party no respite, making it difficult to eat and rest properly in order to heal. Mentally, the boy seemed withdrawn and clearly blamed himself for not only his and Aramis’ injuries but also the current tension between the two of them.

 

Athos knew the fault for this rested on his shoulders also, but the boy had shut him out each time he’d made an effort to explain. Having unwittingly allowed things to continue, the older man was now uncertain about how to start fixing things between them. Releasing a deep sigh of frustration, Athos raised his glass to drink, only to find it empty, as was the bottle he’d been pouring from. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he contemplated leaving to fetch more wine, when a whimper from d’Artagnan’s bed had him moving across the floor before he even realized. Looking down at the boy, it seemed that he was caught in the throes of a nightmare, his head beginning to toss slowly as his brow furrowed in displeasure.

 

Athos’ movement had attracted Porthos’ attention and the larger man now looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to soothe the boy. Athos hesitated another moment before softly calling the boy’s name, placing a hand on his shoulder. The effect was instantaneous as the young man’s eyes widened in surprise and he struggled to sit up. “No, d’Artagnan, be still!” Athos ordered, pushing down on the man’s shoulder to keep him in place.

 

The Gascon’s eyes shot to his mentor as his chest heaved, struggling to catch his breath after his disturbing dream. Realization and embarrassment dawned on the young man several seconds later as he noted Athos’ hand on his shoulder and the look of displeasure on his face. d’Artagnan shrugged his shoulder to dislodge the other man’s hand, looking down as he whispered, “Sorry, I’m fine.”

 

Athos pulled his hand away as if burned, dropping it to his side, unsure of what to do next. His roaming eyes landed on the water and he moved to fill a cup, holding it in front of the young man’s face until it was taken from him. The Gascon sipped slowly in between breaths, wincing at the ever-present ache in his chest. Sensing their unease, Porthos made to remove his hand from Aramis’ when it was gripped tighter and squeezed. Surprised, he turned to see his friend looking up at him and leaned forward to hear his words.

 

“Who?” Aramis whispered.

 

Porthos smiled, happy to see his friend awake again. “d’Artagnan, he’s in the other bed,” he replied, motioning with his head. Aramis turned his head to see but his view was blocked by Porthos’ position beside him, so the larger man shifted so he could see the other bed.

 

Aramis frowned as he took in the sight of the man reclining in the bed, his position more upright than prone due to the large mound of pillows stacked behind him. His mind showed him scattered images of his friends’ dead bodies strewn across the snow and flashes of having caught one of the men and kicking him cruelly until his strength ran out. For some reason, the memories seemed wrong and the man lying in the other bed evoked emotions of caring and brotherhood that conflicted with his desire for revenge for the deaths of his brothers.

 

Porthos watched Aramis’ face as it clouded over, thinking at first that the man was unhappy with the state of his injured friend, but now wondering if there was something else going on of which they were unaware. d’Artagnan was looking at Aramis as well, a hopeful and troubled look on his face as he waited for the other man to speak. When it became clear that Aramis was going to stay silent, the Gascon cleared his throat and addressed his friend. “It’s good to see you awake, Aramis. How are you feeling?”

 

The man’s frown only deepened as he mumbled “fine” before gripping Porthos’ hand tightly in both hands. Porthos looked down at his friend, pondering the odd reaction, then moving quickly to place the bucket beside him under Aramis’ mouth as the man turned and retched helplessly. Athos moved to help him and the two men soothed their friend through his bout of sickness, wiping his face and helping him drink when he was done.

 

d’Artagnan was deeply troubled by the reaction and wondered if Aramis had been sick due to his head injury or if there was something more bothering the man. When the two men had gotten their friend resettled, a wet cloth on his forehead to help ease his headache, Porthos suggested to Athos, “Perhaps we could get them some broth while they’re both awake. They’ll need more than water if they’re to be fit to ride in a few days.” Athos nodded and left the room, glad of the opportunity to have some time to himself. Once he had exited, Porthos turned in his seat so that he could maintain his hold on Aramis’ hand and see the Gascon as well.

 

“He’s doing better than he was,” Porthos assured him, seeing the look of worry on the young man’s face. “He’s just confused right now and having a hard time differentiating between Savoy and the present.” The Gascon nodded. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Fine,” d’Artagnan answered automatically.

 

The large man snorted, a grin on his face. “I’ve broken bones before and I know, it’s not fine.” His voice softened as he prodded the boy, “How are you really?”

 

The young man raised a shoulder to shrug, aborting the action when it pulled on his ribs and jostled his broken arm. Wincing he said, “Not fine yet, but I will be.” Porthos nodded, understanding the boy was loath to feel weak or to be a hindrance to his friends. “I…” the boy stammered, flushing red, “could you help me to the chamber pot?”

 

“Of course,” Porthos stated, no trace of embarrassment in his tone. He knew how difficult it was for the boy to ask for help especially with something like this, and did his best to convey that the request was nothing to be uncomfortable about. Porthos leaned closer to Aramis, whispering to the man as he disentangled his hand, “I’ll be right back, alright?” Waiting for a slight nod of acknowledgement before standing, he moved to the Gascon’s bed. “Do you want me to bring it over here so you don’t need to get up?”

 

The young man shook his head, saying “No, I’d like to get up and move a bit.” Doubting the wisdom of the boy’s intentions, Porthos nonetheless assisted him in sitting up, pulling the blankets back so he could shift to sit on the side of the bed. For several moments they stayed there, Porthos with his hand on the boy’s upper arms while the young man battled the dizziness that assaulted him. When he was ready, the Gascon nodded and Porthos lifted him gently to a standing position, supporting him the few steps to the chamber pot.

 

“Do you…you know?” Porthos questioned.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan exclaimed horrified, “I’ll brace myself on the wall.”

 

Porthos nodded, moving a few steps away to give the boy some sense of privacy as he took care of his needs. When he was finished, Porthos returned, helping the boy shuffle back to the bed, concerned at the fine tremors that now shook the young man’s thin frame. “Relax for a few minutes,” he murmured, tucking the blankets around the boy’s shoulders. “When Athos returns, he’ll expect you to drink.” The look that crossed the boy’s face surprised Porthos as he read a mix of frustration and dread in the young man’s eyes. “Is something wrong?” Porthos ventured.

 

“No, it’s just I’m not sure how much I’ll manage,” the Gascon motioned to his broken arm, “my stomach’s a little upset from the pain.”

 

Porthos laid a hand on the young man’s thigh, compassion written all over his face, “We could talk to the physician again? See if he has something that will help?”

 

The Gascon shook his head, forcing a small smile, “It’s alright, I’d rather keep a clear head.” Porthos looked unconvinced. “Really, Porthos, it’ll be fine. I’ll drink whatever Athos brings,” he promised.

 

Athos returned at that moment, throwing a questioning look at Porthos when he saw the man next to the Gascon’s bed. Porthos shrugged, not willing to embarrass the boy further by explaining what they’d been doing and simply crossed the room to take one of the cups from Athos so he could assist Aramis in drinking. He pointedly left the other cup in Athos’ hands so he would be forced to bring it to d’Artagnan himself, a decision that earned him a look of annoyance from his friend and caused Porthos to grin.

 

“Aramis, I’ve some broth here for you. Do you think you can manage a few sips?” Porthos asked, watching his friend’s face for any signs of discomfort at the smell. His face was still far too pale for Porthos’ liking but he nodded and Porthos helped him sit up a bit so that he could drink.

 

Across the room, Athos had handed the other cup to d’Artagnan who’d mumbled a soft thank you and then immediately brought the cup to his lips. Athos turned back to the table, securing a small piece of bread and offered it to the Gascon so that he might have something more substantial in his stomach. For a moment it seemed that the young man might refuse his offering, but with a quick glance at Porthos’ back, the boy took the bread, managing a few small bites.

 

It was clear that Athos’ presence was making the Gascon uncomfortable so, rather than watching him eat, he forced his legs to carry him back to the table and began eating as well, knowing that his desire to drink instead would only make matters worse. When the young man had finished his bread and drained the cup, Athos rose and took it from him, noting the boy’s pale face. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes met his and Athos could see the boy’s increasing distress as he clamped his jaw shut, swallowing in a vain attempt to combat the nausea that was threatening. Athos moved to bring the bucket over, correctly interpreting the signs as the Gascon folded over himself and violently expelled everything he’d managed to eat. The older man held his friend as best he could while the boy panted and gasped in pain, as the action of being sick pulled on his damaged ribs and jarred his arm. When he was finished, the young man slumped boneless in Athos’ arms, lacking the energy to sit up on his own. Athos laid the bucket on the floor and held the young man as he panted, tears leaking from his eyes and soaking into the older man’s shirt. As the boy’s breathing slowed down, Athos could feel his body relaxing and moved to lay the young man back on the bed. The Gascon’s eyes were closed, tear tracks still visible on his waxy face, and Athos wiped them away with a shirtsleeve.

 

Porthos looked over at the two forlornly, saddened by what had just happened. “I don’t understand why he was so ill,” Athos stated to his friend.

 

“S’my fault,” Porthos responded. “I told him you’d expect him to eat and I think he forced himself so he wouldn’t disappoint you.” The large man shook his head despondently. “I never would ‘ave said anything if I’d known this would happen.”

 

Athos stared at his friend, seeing the guilt in his posture and assured him, “It’s not your fault, Porthos. If I had made things right between us, he wouldn’t feel the need to push himself so.”

 

Neither man spoke at Athos’ own admission of guilt, recognizing that they’d both contributed to the Gascon’s actions in their own way. Finally breaking the silence, Athos queried, “How is Aramis?”

 

“I think he’s better. He managed a half-cup of broth and is keeping it down for now. Sleeping again, I think,” he said as he looked down at his friend’s lax features.

 

“Then you should take some time to eat and refresh yourself, since we’ve no idea how long they’ll sleep.” At Porthos’ nod, Athos stood, lifting the soiled bucket. “I’ll dispose of this so the smell doesn’t ruin your appetite and when I return, you can go stretch your legs outside.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take care, Athos. The boy does not take kindly to being told what to do and recent circumstances have created a more tenuous position than normal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to read, leave kudos and comment on this story - I'm grateful for every opportunity to hear your thoughts. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

When Porthos had returned after a few hours’ rest, Athos had relinquished their charges into his friend’s care, explaining that he needed to check on the horses and consult with the innkeeper about lengthening their stay. Unknown to the others, he also made a trip to visit the physician, not being able to bear the thought of his protégé in so much pain that he could barely keep water down. Both Aramis and d’Artagnan had spent portions of the afternoon awake, and Porthos was especially glad when Aramis managed another cup of broth along with some bread and kept both down. Disturbingly, Aramis hadn’t asked about d’Artagnan and the younger man kept quiet during those times when he knew Aramis was awake. For his part, the Gascon was still struggling to cope with the pain he suffered, doing his best to lay still even when he wasn’t sleeping, but finding it difficult as the hours of boredom went on. Porthos had come to sit with him a couple of times while Aramis slept, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel guilty at the relief he felt that Athos was not in the room.

 

Porthos proved to be a good distraction, ensuring the young man didn’t overtax himself by trying to talk too much, and entertaining him with stories of past skirmishes that were oddly bereft of Athos’ presence. When Athos returned that night, he brought more broth and bread for the two convalescing men. Passing a portion off to Porthos, he moved quickly to help Aramis eat before the other man could, leaving him to tend to d’Artagnan instead. If the Gascon was surprised, his face showed none of it and he slowly drained the cup he’d been given before eating a portion of the bread. When he’d finished, he felt the familiar churning in his stomach but wanted to desperately to avoid being sick again.

 

Porthos looked over at Athos who had noticed the boy’s distress and now held a small vial in his hands, motioning to the larger man to take it from him. Porthos squeezed the boy’s ankle, rising to collect the bottle from his friend, leaning over as he did so to hear Athos’ words. “I got this from the physician today. Add several drops to his water and it should lessen his pain.” Porthos looked uncertainly at d’Artagnan, uneasy about the prospect of drugging the boy without his knowledge, but the pain on his friend’s face as he forced himself to take slow even breaths, holding his left arm with his other hand to stabilize it, had the large man moving to carry out Athos’ instructions.

 

“Here,” Porthos held the cup out to d’Artagnan, “maybe this’ll help.”

 

d’Artagnan didn’t seem inclined to agree, but grudgingly took the cup, taking a couple of sips when Porthos glared at him. Several minutes passed and Porthos could see the young man’s features relaxing, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders and his eyelids getting heavy. d’Artagnan didn’t understand what was happening and he looked blearily at his friend as the man took the cup of water from his hand before it fell. “It’s alright, whelp, get some sleep,” Porthos ordered with a grin. The young man blinked heavily once last time before he drifted off.

 

Porthos placed d’Artagnan’s cup on the table, taking note of its location so they could provide him more pain relief when he needed it, and returned to Athos’ side. “He won’t appreciate being drugged,” he advised his friend. Athos shrugged, unrepentant that they’d eased the boy’s pain.

 

“And how is our other patient doing?” Porthos asked, his gaze falling on Aramis.

 

“Pfft, m’fine,” came the man’s slurred response.

 

“Of course you are,” Porthos agreed, his grin growing larger, while Athos merely rolled his eyes at the two men.

 

“He is not completely incorrect,” Athos admitted, “and he managed the cup of broth as well as some bread. His mind seems clearer, also.”

 

Porthos made a questioning look, motioning to the Gascon and then looking back at Aramis. Athos shrugged in reply – the man still hadn’t asked about his bedridden friend so it was impossible to tell whether he remembered the boy or not.

 

As Aramis closed his eyes and followed d’Artagnan’s example, Porthos yawned widely. Athos’ lips quirked at the sight of his tired friend and rose from his spot at Aramis’ side, pushing his friend down to sit in his place. “I believe Aramis rested well with you at his side last night and it’s important for his recovery that he have another good night.”

 

Porthos snorted at him, knowing full well what was happening. “Yeah, yeah, no need to get pushy about it. And what about you,” the large man asked his friend.

 

“I believe my back can manage another night in the chair,” Athos replied, moving to sit next to the Gascon while he slept.

 

“You know he’ll forgive you, right?” Porthos reminded him.

 

Athos nodded, “He has a very forgiving nature,” he trailed off and waited until Porthos had turned away and settled against Aramis’ side before continuing under his breath, “but perhaps there is no forgiveness for me this time.” Sighing, he settled down to sleep, praying that the following day would be an easier one than today. 

* * *

It seemed that they had struck upon the right formula to ensure their patients rested properly; d’Artagnan’s drugged body allowed him to sleep through the night without waking, while Porthos’ closeness did the same for Aramis. In the morning, it was Aramis who awoke first, finding himself pinned by the larger man’s arm around his waist, bringing a smile to his lips. Looking around the room, he spotted the other occupied bed with Athos slumped awkwardly in a chair beside it. He frowned when he saw the young man lying in bed, a part of him recognizing that he’d seen the man earlier but not remembering the surrounding events.

 

Prodding at the larger man’s arm, Aramis endeavored to wake his friend so he could ask about the young man. Porthos woke quickly, a part of his mind remaining aware in case his friend needed him, and he was overjoyed to see Aramis already awake. Pushing himself up on his elbow, he grinned down at his friend. “It’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”

 

Now that Aramis actually considered the question, he realized that he was feeling much better than before. His head barely ached and his thinking was clearer than it had been in…actually, he didn’t know how long. The thought brought a frown to his face and he asked, “How long has it been?”

 

“Since we found you?” Porthos clarified. At Aramis’ nod, he said, “two days.”

 

Two days, Aramis contemplated. Not great but not awful for a head wound. “What about d’Artagnan?” he questioned. “He looks terrible.”

 

Porthos grinned widened as he took in the meaning of Aramis’ words – the man had remembered their other friend and was now showing signs of concerns for the boy. Aramis mistook the look on Porthos’ face and admonished him, “His condition hardly seems worthy of mirth. What happened to him?”

 

Porthos shook his head, deciding it would be too complicated to explain now and choosing simply to answer the man’s question instead. “He’ll be alright. Left arm’s broken as are one or more of his ribs on his right side. Other than that, he just needs some rest and proper food, just like you.”

 

Aramis seemed annoyed at his friend’s suggestion that he was anything less than well and refocused their conversation on the young man. “Has he been seen by a physician? Broken bones are nothing to sneeze at.”

 

“Yes,” Porthos replied affectionately at his friend’s concern, “he splinted the boy’s arm and Athos made the sling and wrapped his ribs.” As Porthos assessed their young friend, he realized the man looked more comfortable than he had been in the previous two days. “Honestly, this looks like the best sleep he’s gotten since we found you.”

 

That was twice now that Porthos had talking about finding them and Aramis was curious to hear more. “What do you mean, found us? What exactly happened?”

 

“You don’t remember?” Porthos confirmed.

 

Aramis lifted his hand to touch the bandage at his temple. “I recall images but apparently there are still some gaps in my memory,” he said with an embarrassed smile.

 

Porthos clasped his hand to prevent him from prodding the wound and explained, “You and d’Artagnan were to check three farms to the east to see if there was any sign of the escaped prisoners.” Aramis’ eyebrow raised at this, clearly having forgotten the mission that brought them there in the first place. “Both of you ended up being thrown off your horses, which is how you hurt your head. d’Artagnan managed to get you part of the way back here, but you had only one horse and a storm moved in.” Porthos took a deep breath and Aramis could see the worry that had plagued his friend during the previous days. “He kept you alive long enough for us to find you but you were both half-frozen by then, laying in the snow, unconscious.”

 

Aramis squeezed the hand he still clasped in his own and murmured to his friend, “Thank you for finding us and for taking care of us. I can see we have not made it easy for you.”

 

Porthos shrugged, uncomfortable with his friend’s appreciation, “Was nothin’.”

 

“It is never nothing when a friend spends hours worrying over his friends, taking care of their every need, especially when those friends have a reputation for being especially challenging patients, such as d’Artagnan and I do.” Aramis smiled as he spoke but Porthos could see the deep sincerity in his friend’s eyes and gave a quick nod of acknowledgement at the man’s words.

 

"And how are they?" Aramis queried.

 

“I’m surprised you remember that,” Porthos confessed.

 

Aramis shrugged, “I’m not sure I do, not really, but what I recall from our time here seems… _tense_.”

 

Porthos snorted at his friend understatement as he countered, “The two of ‘em have been dancing around each other, both with hurt feelings and neither one of ‘em knowing how to fix things.” He sighed, “It’s been hard to watch, especially with everything else that’s been going on.”

 

Aramis nodded in understanding as he declared, “Then it’s a good thing that the two of us are smarter than they are, since it will be up to us to bring them to their senses.”

 

“Bring who to their senses?” Athos asked dryly, having wandered over to stand behind Porthos as his friends finished their conversation.

 

“You two, of course,” Porthos retorted. “And now I have help,” he grinned, pointing to Aramis who wore a dimmer version of his usual smile.

 

Athos leaned over his friend, clasping his arm, “It is good to see you awake, my friend. I cannot claim the same, but Porthos was extremely concerned,” his lips turned up slightly, belying the sentiment in his words.

 

“How’s d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked now that some of his concern of Aramis had abated.

 

Athos looked over his shoulder at the young man’s bed, seeing that he was starting to wake. “He slept soundly and will hopefully be ready to eat this morning. Speaking of which, I’ll head downstairs and see what’s for breakfast.”

 

As Athos exited the room, Porthos scowled at his back, “Coward.”

 

“Has it been like this the entire time?” Aramis asked.

 

“Pretty much. Pair of bloody idiots.” With a sigh, he hefted himself up, intending to be at d’Artagnan’s side when the boy awakened, but he was stopped by Aramis’ hand on his thigh.

 

“Help me get up?” Aramis requested.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Aramis,” Porthos began.

 

“Good idea or not, I _need_ to get up, so you can either help me or pick me up when I’ve fallen over,” Aramis retorted. Understanding dawned on the other man’s face and he moved to help his friend upright, steadying him as he found his feet. “Thank you,” Aramis whispered when his head cleared and he pulled away from his friend. “Go, I’m fine now.”

 

Porthos left his friend to take care of his needs, moving to sit in the chair that Athos had vacated. The Gascon had indeed been waking and was now blinking fuzzily at the ceiling. “Morning,” Porthos said.

 

The young man turned his head to find the larger man sitting beside him, and licked his lips as he murmured a reply, “Morning.” Porthos handed him a cup of water and the Gascon eyed it warily, slowly coming to the realization that his dry mouth was a result of being drugged. “Is this one safe to drink?” he asked wryly.

 

Knowing that it would do no good to deny it, Porthos simply nodded at the young man’s glare. Taking a few sips, d’Artagnan noticed Aramis out of his bed and asked eagerly about his condition. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

 

“Yeah, he’s a lot better today. The rest last night seems to have done him a world of good.” Porthos nodded meaningfully at the cup of water in the boy’s hands, “You too.” The comment did nothing to remove the scowl from the young man’s face, but he didn’t dispute the other man’s claims.

 

“And Athos?” he asked.

 

“Gone to get some breakfast. We’ll need to leave by tomorrow if we’re to be back on time and for that to happen, you’ll need to regain your strength,” Porthos told him.

 

Aramis had finished his business and now moved to sit on the end of d’Artagnan’s bed, placing a hand on the boy’s ankle as he cast an appraising look over him. “I understand that you’ve managed to damage yourself,” he stated, a glint of humour in his eyes. “Is it alright if I have a look?”

 

The Gascon knew of Aramis’ overwhelming need to ensure the well-being of his friends and, while Aramis had only just moved from his own sick bed, d’Artagnan knew that the man needed to satisfy himself that all was well. He nodded at Aramis’ expectant gaze, allowing the man to move closer and pull back his blankets, he sat pliantly as his friend pressed gently against his right side, checking on his sore ribs.

 

A frown appeared on Aramis’ face as he looked at Porthos and asked, “How many broken ribs did the physician find?”

 

“He said one cracked or broken for sure, maybe one more.”

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed. “Two are definitely broken, I can feel them clearly.” Aramis turned his attention to the boy’s arm, “May I?” The young man nodded again, tensing in anticipation of the pain. Aramis was as gentle as possible as he removed the boy’s arm from its sling and then felt along its length to confirm the sole break and to ensure that the bones were properly aligned as they healed. Aramis replaced the boy’s arm gently in the sling, then looked up at his pained face, “Apologies, d’Artagnan, I had to be sure. If the bones had not been properly aligned as they healed…”

 

There was no need for him to continue as they all knew of others whose bones had fused together incorrectly, creating the need for them to be re-broken or leaving the person lame for life.

 

Athos had slipped back into the room to see the end of Aramis’ examination and he now threw a questioning look at his friend, confirming that the boy was healing well. d’Artagnan had not yet noticed his entrance, having closed his eyes as he tried to slow his breathing and manage his pain. Athos grabbed the cup containing the physician’s pain reliever and waited for the Gascon to open his eyes before attempting to hand it to him.

 

d’Artagnan stared at the cup defiantly but made no move to take it. “Have a few sips of this and then you can have some breakfast,” Athos stated.

 

“I don’t need anything for the pain,” the boy retorted.

 

Athos’ gaze found Porthos’ as he realized that the young man knew he’d been drugged. Turning his attention back to the boy, he countered, “You need to be able to keep food down if you’re to regain your strength and ride back with us tomorrow.” If possible, the scowl on the boy’s face deepened, resenting the fact that his mentor had brought up his bouts of sickness as a way of getting him to drink the medicine he held. Getting frustrated, Athos stuck the cup under the young man’s nose, as he angrily scolded the boy. “Don’t be stupid and drink it.”

 

Shock appeared on the three men’s faces as they processed the words Athos had uttered, and without a word, d’Artagnan grabbed the cup from him and drained it, thrusting it back at the older man when he was done. Seemingly stunned by his own words, Athos stared at the empty cup in his hands, not wanting to face the gazes of his friends. “I’m sorry, I had no right,” he apologized quietly.

 

“No, you’re right,” d’Artagnan stated flatly, “I can’t keep anything down while I’m in pain and I don’t intend to be a burden on anyone.” Turning to Porthos, he requested, overly politely, “May I have something to eat, please?”

 

Porthos moved to get some food for the young man, while Aramis rose from the bed and grasped Athos’ arm, saying, “Help me back, please.”

 

Athos wordlessly gripped Aramis’ elbow, keeping him steady as they made their way back to the other man’s bed and then helped him settle against the pillows and wall behind the bed. When he was comfortable, Aramis turned a compassionate gaze to his friend, admonishing him, “Take care, Athos. The boy does not take kindly to being told what to do and recent circumstances have created a more tenuous position than normal.” Athos scowled at his friend as he spoke and Aramis further softened his gaze. “Athos, the boy is in pain and hurting as well from the sting of your earlier words. All is not lost but you must tread carefully so that you may pull him closer rather than pushing him further away.”

 

“You’re right, of course,” Athos replied quietly. “I don’t honestly know what came over me.” He paused at Aramis’ insightful stare that said Aramis didn’t believe him. “I may have some idea of why I’ve been on edge as of late, but I confess, I have no idea how to stop.”

 

Aramis could see his friend’s vulnerability as he shared his fears about the current rift between himself and d’Artagnan and he gripped his friend’s arm as he advised, “d’Artagnan is not a fool. He knows that something troubles you and that you do not mean what you say. However, he needs some time before he’ll be ready to admit that and to listen to your apology.”

 

Athos nodded, knowing that his friend was correct and moved to get him some breakfast. As he did so, Aramis sighed and leaned back against his pillows, realizing that the next few days were likely to remain tense until Athos resolved to share whatever was bothering him and the Gascon was ready to listen and accept the older man’s apology.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Porthos reached the same conclusion within moments of each other and, in tandem, they raced back to their horses, turning them swiftly back towards town. If that was the destination of their prisoners, they would be caught unaware when they discovered two Musketeers – two injured Musketeers – still ensconced at the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos after reading the last chapter. A bit of a change of pace in this next one - hope you enjoy it!

The draught he’d consumed worked well to dull d’Artagnan’s pain but also had the unpleasant side effect of making him drowsy and he dozed for several hours after he’d eaten, a task he’d completed under Porthos’ scrutiny since they felt it best that Athos keep his distance for a while. Aramis had also managed a decent meal, and after a short nap awoke again and moved to the table to sit and talk with his friends for the next few hours. Their day together would have been considered comfortable if not for the discord between their leader and youngest member.

 

Late in the afternoon a knock at their door had Athos moving to answer, receiving a messenger from the Comte who requested their presence at his home. Athos turned to take in his friends’ states and knew that he could not ask them to ride yet, nor was he comfortable leaving the two injured men alone. With a quick word to the messenger, advising him to wait for him downstairs, Athos turned to Porthos.

 

“The Comte has sent for us. I’ll ride out and speak with him while you stay here and take care of Aramis and d’Artagnan.”

 

Porthos and Aramis were clearly unhappy at allowing Athos to leave on his own, if their faces were any indication. “Take Porthos with you. We’ll be fine on our own for a few hours,” Aramis stated.

 

Athos had expected the reaction and was already shaking his head. “I’ll be riding back with the Comte’s messenger and it is only a half-hour ride to his chateau. I’d only worry if you were here by yourselves.”

 

Frustrated by the situation, but understanding their friend’s need to keep them safe, the two men nodded. “Very well, we’ll expect you back in three hours?” Aramis questioned, looking at Porthos for confirmation of his time estimate.

 

“Better make it four,” Porthos suggested, knowing that it was approaching evening and the Comte was likely to invite the Musketeer to dine with him before returning to the inn. Athos nodded his agreement and turned to collect his doublet, cloak and weapons, saying as he left, “Make sure the boy eats.”

 

The two friends rolled their eyes at his order and Porthos turned to the young man, still lying in bed. “You can open your eyes now, he’s gone.”

 

Aramis looked over in surprise to find that the young man was in fact awake. “It’s rude of you to eavesdrop on others’ conversations,” Aramis scolded with a small smile.  

 

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan muttered with a contrite grin.

 

“How are you feeling, lad?” Porthos queried as he moved to the young man’s bed.

 

“Better and slept out, I think. I’d like to get up for a bit.”

 

Porthos looked at Aramis for confirmation before moving to help the young man get up, a task that was accomplished with more than a few grimaces and choice words on the Gascon’s part as he forced stiff and weak muscles to move, and did his best to brace his arm and side. Once standing, Porthos helped him shuffle over to the table and sit down, allowing the young man several seconds to regain his breath.

 

When he’d recovered, Aramis asked him, “Better?” The young man nodded, having had more than enough of lying in bed. “Then you should eat something.” The other man pushed a bowl of stew and bread toward the Gascon as Porthos poured him a cup of water.

 

At the young man’s raised eyebrow, Porthos snorted, “It’s not drugged, promise. You know, if you just took your medicine, we wouldn’t need to trick you.”

 

Through a bite of stew, d’Artagnan answered, “I was doing alright without it.” This earned him another huff of disbelief from Porthos and he amended his statement. “Fine, maybe not alright but I could have dealt with it.”

 

Aramis leaned forward, grasping the boy’s forearm, “There’s no need to be in pain, d’Artagnan, and your body will take longer to heal if it’s constantly fighting the discomfort of your injuries. Besides,” Aramis shared a look with Porthos, “it pains us also to see you hurting and we cannot allow that if we have at our disposal the means to remove it.”

 

The young man was touched by his friend’s words and could not deny that he felt the same way about them; while he was still unhappy at being drugged, he understood the necessity. “Fine, I won’t fight you, but only at night or if things get really bad, alright?”

 

Aramis nodded, already thinking ahead to the next day’s trip and anticipating that the young man would need something for the pain if he were to manage the journey. No matter what, the movement of being on a horse would jar broken bones and bring the strongest man to tears.

 

“What do you think the Comte wanted,” d’Artagnan asked as he finished his meal.

 

Porthos shrugged, “Not sure, but maybe it’s a good thing he sent for us tonight. Save us the trip tomorrow to let him know that we’re heading back empty-handed.”

 

“Where do you think the prisoners ended up?” d’Artagnan continued.

 

“It’s hard to say but after so many days, it’s likely they’ve fled the Comte’s lands. Even the stupidest criminal has the good sense to flee after being pursued by Musketeers,” Aramis pointed out with a smile.

 

“Right terrifying, we are,” Porthos added with a grin, clapping Aramis on the back.

 

d’Artagnan grinned at the normalness of their banter, something that had been sorely missing during the past week as the strain between himself and Athos escalated. “Do you think he’ll be alright?” he asked.

 

“Who, Athos?” Porthos clarified. “Of course, no one would be foolish enough to attack him with that fierce scowl he wears,” the man smiled as he spoke. “And if they did, they’d find themselves on the other end of Athos’ sword right quick, without even the time to regret their poor choices.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded. His friend was right; Athos was a fierce soldier and exceptionally skilled with a blade. He’d never been able to best the man, despite having refined his own abilities under the man’s tutelage. Still, it bothered him to be left in the safety of the inn while their friend was travelling through the snow without someone to watch his back.

 

Seeing the melancholy that was overcoming the young man, Aramis moved to clear their dishes from the table, suggesting that Porthos fetch his cards to pass the time. The large man moved obligingly, pouring a glass of wine for himself under the scrutiny of his two friends. “What? You can’t drink yet,” he pointed out.

 

“Sadly, he’s right,” Aramis agreed, looking unhappily at d’Artagnan, “we shall have to get our satisfaction from beating Porthos at cards instead.”

 

The men played cards for a couple of hours before Aramis called a halt to their game, motioning to the Gascon who had grown increasingly uncomfortable over the last half-hour. Porthos took Aramis’ cue and stood, taking the young man’s arm and pulling him gently to his feet. “Time for bed, whelp.” It was a sign of the young man’s exhaustion that he didn’t utter a word of protest and allowed himself to be helped back into bed and tucked in by the larger man. Aramis followed with cup in which he’d mixed another dose of pain reliever and d’Artagnan took it wordlessly, remembering his earlier promise.

 

Aramis smiled at him in thanks for his good behaviour as he retrieved the empty cup. As d’Artagnan’s eyes closed, Porthos turned to take his other friend’s arm, moving him towards his own bed. “Your turn, Aramis.” Aramis looked at him in surprise as he was efficiently manoeuvred into bed. “Don’t give me that look,” Porthos instructed as he removed the man’s boots. “You’re just as tired and your head’s hurting again. You need the rest just as badly as he does.”

 

Aramis smiled at his friend’s concern and moved agreeably to lay down as Porthos adjusted his pillows so he could lay flat. “Thank you, my friend. I would do better to remember how perceptive you can be when it comes to those you care about.” Porthos merely huffed as he sat beside the man’s bed to watch over him. “Promise me you’ll join me once Athos is safely back rather than sleeping in that chair?” Aramis urged him. His request garnered a nod of agreement and he closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of lying down and being able to rest.

 

The two men had been asleep for scarcely an hour before Athos returned, slipping into the room quietly in case they were sleeping. Porthos still sat next to Aramis’ bed, nursing a glass of wine and he met Athos at the table to hear about his friend’s meeting with the Comte.

 

Athos pitched his voice low to keep from disturbing their sleeping friends. “The Comte’s men have reported sighting our escaped prisoners about three hours’ ride from here. The Comte believes the intelligence to be sound and expects us to ride out tomorrow to apprehend them.”

 

Porthos raised an eyebrow at the unexpected development. “What about them?” he motioned to the two sleeping men.

 

Athos sighed as he answered, “They’ll need to stay here.”

 

Neither man liked the idea of leaving the two men alone and now the situation was further complicated by the fact that they’d have to delay their return to Paris by a day, leaving them to push themselves and their horses to complete the journey in one day less.

 

“When do we tell them?” Porthos asked.

 

“Leave them till the morning. They’ll need a good night’s sleep and hopefully will see the benefit in an extra day of rest before we travel back.”

 

Porthos nodded and in silent agreement, both men prepared themselves for sleep in anticipation of the long day ahead of them.

* * *

Porthos had done his best to not wake his friend when he got up, but years of soldiering had attuned their senses to their surroundings and Aramis woke as soon as the larger man stood up. Recognizing the earliness of the day by the first light coming through the window, Aramis touched his friend’s leg to get his attention, a questioning look on his face. When Porthos realized his friend was awake, he sat back down on the bed to fill him in on the previous night’s events.

 

As expected, Aramis was less than thrilled by the prospect of his friends leaving to apprehend the escaped men, but recognized the need for them to complete the mission. “When do you expect to return?” he asked.

 

Athos had joined them at Aramis’ bed and answered, “No later than tomorrow morning. Their location is a three-hour ride away so I expect we’ll be back by tonight, but one cannot plan for the unexpected.”

 

Aramis inclined his head in agreement. “Does d’Artagnan know?”

 

Both men shook their head to the negative and before Aramis could speak further, Athos interrupted. “Keep yourselves safe, Aramis. I trust that when we return, you’ll be fit enough to stand the ride to Paris and, if we’re successful, we’ll need your strength to help us escort our prisoners back.” Aramis was well aware of the dangers that moving prisoners entailed, the men often desperate enough to try anything to evade their keepers.

 

Athos turned to Porthos, “I’ll saddle the horses while you get yourself ready. Be outside in 15 minutes.” With that, the man exited and Aramis looked at him with frustration, knowing it would likely fall to him to break the bad news of their departure to d’Artagnan.

 

“Aramis,” Porthos drew his attention, “take care of yourselves. Make sure he rests and don’t let him think too harshly of Athos – he’s only doing what he thinks is right and what duty demands.”

 

“I know, but…”

 

Porthos interjected, “Aramis, we both know this is our only option. Do you honestly think either of us could bear to see you riding after these men in your current condition?” Aramis knew his friend was right but didn’t like it just the same. “Make sure he eats and gets the rest he needs. The trip back will be difficult for you both.”

 

Aramis could not deny his friend especially when he saw the look of genuine worry in his eyes and he affixed a smile to his face as he said, “Go and be safe. I’ll be very upset if either of you have need of my skills when you return.”

 

Porthos grinned back at him, grateful that they weren’t parting in anger, and efficiently dressed and collected his weapons, leaving with a quick wave of his hand.

 

Aramis sighed, looking over at their youngest brother and envying him the ignorance of sleep, which would soon turn to anger over Athos’ decision and fear for his friends as they waited for the men to return, hopefully unharmed. Knowing he’d be unable to sleep any longer, Aramis began the process of getting up and dressing, deciding that the young man’s mood might improve if breakfast was waiting for him.

 

Not to suggest that that the Gascon was predictable – for he’d surprised his brothers too often in the past for that label to apply – but his reaction to the news of their friends’ departure produced the anticipated reactions. First, he was furious, raging at Aramis about Athos’ poor judgement in leaving them behind and pursuing the prisoners with only Porthos at his side. “Doesn’t he realize these men are dangerous? And, clearly, they’re not as witless as we were led to believe, otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to elude us for as long as they have. And how can we be sure that these men didn’t intend to be found? They could be riding into a trap!”

 

Aramis was impressed with the flow of the young man’s diatribe, which paused only once d’Artagnan had run out of breath and was forced to stop talking while he collected himself. The young man’s emotions next turned to fear. “What if it is a trap, Aramis? There’s only the two of them and four of the others. They’re outnumbered and we’re not there to watch their backs. They could end up in the same position we were in where they’re lost in the snow and we can’t find them. Then what?” The boy’s voice had quieted considerably from his previous outburst, a clear sign of how troubled he was to be apart from their brothers.

 

When the young man fell silent for a second time, Aramis placed his hand on the Gascon’s and waited for him to make eye contact. “Do you know of any finer soldiers than Athos and Porthos?” he asked. After a moment, d’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t like it either but I have faith in our friends’ abilities. They have faced far greater numbers in the past and emerged victorious – I trust that this time will be no different.”

 

“I know,” the young man mumbled, “you’re right. I just wish we could be with them.”

 

“Me as well, my friend, but since we are not we must not squander the gift of this additional day that we’ve received. If they return with the prisoners, our journey to Paris will be made more difficult for their presence and we’ll need to be constantly on guard. We will need to be able to assist our brothers in this and not allow the burden to fall solely on them.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed to consider the man’s words and then, with effort, shake off his melancholy mood. “Then we should eat and probably rest as much as we’re able. I can check on your horse later,” the boy paused as he noticed Aramis’ raised eyebrow and amended his comment, “ _you_ can check on your horse later while _I_ stay in the room.”

 

The pout on the boy’s face as he finished pulled a hearty laugh out of Aramis and he clapped the young man gently on the back before doling out breakfast.

* * *

Athos and Porthos made their way out of town, turning east in the direction their friends had taken several days ago. The location they’d been given by the Comte was the second farm that Aramis and d’Artagnan were to have checked, suggesting that the men might have been found had it not been for the bad luck that had befallen their friends that day.

 

Without discussion, the two Musketeers had automatically set a quick pace, the snow finally becoming hard-packed in places where others had travelled, both pushed by a desire to return as quickly as possible to their friends at the inn. The weather seemed to be cooperating as well, and the sun was filtered through a few clouds, not enough to dissipate the scarce warmth it threw off but enough to make riding in the snow bearable on the eyes.

 

As they approached their destination, Athos slowed his horse, taking the opportunity to scan the house and buildings ahead of them as well as the surrounding area. Porthos pulled his horse next to this friend’s and the two men stopped as they cast an appraising eye over what lay ahead. The house and buildings stood in the middle of a large field and provided little protection from the winds that blew across the meadow since the nearest trees stood at least a half mile away. That also meant there was no way for the two men to hide their approach, and no place other than the buildings for their prey to hide.

 

“Awfully quiet, isn’t it?” Porthos remarked.

 

Athos cast a sideways glance at his friend, “We’ll start with the house and then work our way through the barn and outbuildings. Watch yourself.”

 

The two men moved their mounts forward, sliding out of their saddles a few feet away from the house, pistols drawn. As they moved around to the front of the house, they were surprised to find the door slightly open; with another glance at Porthos, Athos pushed it open fully, waiting for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior before stepping inside. The house was of a simple design, with a large front room, a kitchen to one side and a bedroom at the back of the house. They moved through the rooms quickly, confirming that no one else was present.

 

With a motion of his head, Athos lead the way to the barn, where they repeated the process, and again verified that no signs of life were present. This left two smaller outbuildings, which were efficiently checked, leaving the two men standing outside and wondering at the complete absence of life present.

 

“There’s no one here,” Porthos remarked with a look of confusion on his face.

 

Athos nodded, “Did you notice the fireplace in the house?” Porthos looked at him questioningly. “It was ice cold, not even embers left. No one’s been here for several days at least.”

 

“But the Comte’s information?” Porthos started.

 

“Was clearly incorrect,” Athos finished.

 

“Bloody waste of time,” the larger man spat with disgust. Then another concern dawned, “What do they gain by giving us bad information?”

 

Athos and Porthos reached the same conclusion within moments of each other and, in tandem, they raced back to their horses, turning them swiftly back towards town. As they rode, Athos berated himself for believing the Comte’s story and blindly following the man’s instructions without verifying the information for himself. The Comte could not have known that members of their party had been injured and, therefore, left behind in town. If that was the destination of their prisoners, they would be caught unaware when they discovered two Musketeers – two _injured_ Musketeers – still ensconced at the inn.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before it had been the two of them against the prisoners and, truthfully, it would have been more Aramis than him given his current physical state. With Aramis once again unconscious and his state of his mind unknown, d’Artagnan would need to protect the other man until Athos and Porthos returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments on the last chapter. I was thrilled to hear from many that you don't want this to end yet and I'm happy to oblige. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

They stayed awake for a couple of hours after they’d eaten before Aramis pleaded tiredness and suggested they both take a short nap. The older man wasn’t really tired, but he’d seen the signs of fatigue in the young man’s face and knew that his pride would prevent him from saying anything on his own behalf. Besides, Aramis reasoned, he could read in his bed as easily as he could while sitting at the table and the boy really did need his rest. True to his word, d’Artagnan had drunk a small amount of the physician’s draught before lying down, ensuring that his sleep would be undisturbed by pain.

 

When mid-day arrived, d’Artagnan still slumbered and Aramis was embarrassed to admit to himself that he, too, had slept for a while. The wound on his head was healing well but the remnants of the injury still lingered, causing him to suffer the occasional dizzy spell when he moved too quickly and producing a dull throbbing behind his eyes that made long periods of wakefulness challenging. Despite his own infirmity, Aramis knew their journey would be far harder on the young Gascon, whose broken bones had only just started to knit.

 

Deciding to take advantage of the fact that the young man still slept, Aramis pulled on his boots and doublet, throwing his cloak over both shoulders, intent on visiting the stables to check on his horse and to see if he could secure a mount for d’Artagnan. This would be his first trip outside since their accident and Aramis already shivered at the thought of stepping out into the cold. With a last look at the young man, Aramis’ soft steps carried him out of their room, closing the door firmly behind him.

 

Outside the weather was still frigid but the bright sun gave the impression that the day was warmer than it really was. Pulling his cloak tightly around himself, Aramis made his way to the stables where he was happy to find his horse with plenty of feed and fresh water; the tack had been taken care of as well and cleaned carefully before being hung to keep it out of the way. Aramis patted his horse’s side affectionately, murmuring, “Tomorrow, my beauty, we’ll be heading home and when we get back to the garrison, I’ll find you a whole bag of apples to feast upon.” His hand still resting on the horse’s flank, he noticed right away when the horse tensed, sensing someone else’s presence in the barn. Expecting to find the stable boy or a member of the innkeeper’s family, he stepped out of the stall, intending to inquire about a horse for d’Artagnan.

 

Before he could utter a single word, he was struck from the side, falling insensate from the force of the blow to his head. Unknown to him, four men gathered around his unconscious form, one of whom addressed the tallest in their midst. “He’s a Musketeer! What are they doing ‘ere?”

 

The tall man stepped forward, considering the man lying at their feet, “Not sure, but we might be able to use this to our advantage. “Daumont,” he looked at a man in their party who was easily as broad as Porthos, “take Peron and find the innkeeper. Find out if there’s any more of them inside,” he said, motioning to the Musketeer. The two men he’d named nodded and left to do as they’d been ordered. “Corneul, find some rope and tie this man up. When he wakes, we’ll ask him some questions.”

 

Corneul moved quickly to follow the man’s instructions, while the man himself remained thoughtfully over Aramis’ body, watching a slow trickle of blood wind its way down his cheek. “You, mon ami, are in the wrong place at the wrong time.” A broad grin split the man’s face before he released a bark of laughter, leaning on a post behind him as he waited for Corneul to return.

* * *

d’Artagnan awoke to the familiar aftertaste and fuzziness of the draught he’d consumed, while perhaps not entirely willingly, it had at least been with more grace than previously. He was determined to prove to Athos that he was not a hindrance to their group and was doing everything in his power to follow the man’s orders. Pulling himself fully upright with a small grunt of pain, he was surprised to find himself alone in the room, needing a moment to recall his earlier conversation with Aramis when they’d decided on the man’s visit to the stables.

 

Bored of lying in bed, d’Artagnan decided to take advantage of the situation and go downstairs to find something for lunch. Aramis was still recovering as well and the young man felt guilty that the bulk of the responsibility for their wellbeing had fallen to the other man in their friends’ absence. The Gascon braced his ribs and arm as he bent forward to retrieve his boots, an act that left him pale-faced and sweating at his body’s intense disapproval at the movement. When he was sufficiently recovered, he manoeuvered his foot into one of his boots, lifting his leg until he could reach it with his hand so that he could pull it on properly. This was repeated with the other boot, leaving him grinning broadly at his success. Next, he considered his shirt, realizing ruefully that unstrapping his arm in order to dress properly was not an option. In the end, he settled for pulling the shirt over his head and threading his one free arm into its sleeve, leaving the other one in its sling and allowing the second sleeve to hang free.

 

Bolstered by his success and relieved that Aramis had not yet returned to catch him, he exited the room and leaned heavily on the bannister as he made his way downstairs. Hearing voices in the kitchen, he moved to enter, pausing when hearing what sounded like a cry of pain. He softened his steps and sidled up to the door, listening for the conversation that was taking place within.

 

“Are there any more?” a loud, impatient voice asked. “I won’t ask again.”

 

A young girl’s voice cried out in fear, “Papa!”

 

“No, please,” another voice pleaded. “I’ll tell you.” The voices were silent for several moments. “God forgive me. There’s one more, first room at the top of the stairs.”

 

It took d’Artagnan’s mind a moment to comprehend that the room being discussed was the one that he and Aramis currently shared. Backing up quickly, he looked around, trying to figure out what he should do. He realized with a groan that he hadn’t even brought his weapons with him, having left everything upstairs. His decision made for him, he moved as swiftly as he was able back to the stairs but had not even made it half-way up before a voice behind him ordered him to stop. Knowing that he had little choice but to try and make it back to their room, d’Artagnan pushed his body to move faster, hearing a thudding behind him as he was pursued. He nearly made it and was about to place a foot on the landing, when his world whited out with agony as his pursuer grabbed his ankle, dropping him mercilessly on his front to land on his broken arm. A scream was pushed from his lungs in the instant before he fell limp, driven to unconsciousness from the pain of his injury.

 

Behind him Daumont looked up at Peron from the bottom of the staircase, a wide grin on his face. “That wasn’t too hard. Thought these Musketeers were supposed to be somethin’ special.” The two men laughed heartily at the ease with which they’d now captured not one, but two of the King’s guard. “I’ll go tell Faulcon of our success. In the meantime, why don’t you move this one back to his room.”

 

Peron nodded, moving to the top of the stairs to grasp the unconscious man’s arm, before dragging him into the room identified by the innkeeper and letting him fall back to the floor. Seeing the bottle of wine on the table, he took a chair and helped himself to a drink, tipping the bottle to his mouth. Faulcon had said he had a plan and, so far, things were working out well for the men – very well indeed.

* * *

“Faulcon,” the man looked up to see Daumont approaching, “we found one more. Peron has him in one of the rooms. Should we move the other one there too?”

 

Faulcon considered the man’s suggestion, examining the still-unconscious Musketeer at his feet. “Yeah, you and Corneul grab this one and let’s move inside.” As the men moved to bring the captured man into the inn, Faulcon questioned, “Anyone else in there we need to worry about?”

 

Daumont shook his head. “Nah, just the innkeeper and his daughter. As far as I can tell, everyone else who was staying left as soon as the weather broke. The Musketeers were the only ones left.”

 

Faulcon nodded his approval, “Then it seems that we’ll have a nice, comfortable place to stay for a couple of days while we empty the Comte’s coffers.”

 

Daumont led the way upstairs, allowing Faulcon to enter the room first and then following behind with Corneul and the bound Musketeer. Seeing the second man lying on the floor, Daumont moved towards him and he and Corneul dumped the man’s body beside his friend.

 

“What now?” Corneul asked, grabbing the bottle of wine from Peron and taking a long swallow.

 

“Now, you and Peron go lock the doors and bring us something to eat. Afterwards, you can go back downstairs for your meal and act as lookouts; I don’t want to be interrupted while we’re talking with our new friends,” Faulcon replied with a smirk.

 

As the men left to find food, Daumont looked at the two unconscious men, asking, “Want me to tie the other one up too?” At Faulcon’s nod, Daumont stepped forward, flipping d’Artagnan onto his back and then scowling in confusion at seeing only one arm. Noticing the extra bulk under the man’s shirt, he pulled it up roughly to display the splinted arm in its sling. He smiled mirthlessly as he called to their leader, “Oy, Faulcon, have a look at this.”

 

The man walked over to have a look, a smile slowly spreading across his face to mirror the one on Daumont’s. “Well, that’s interesting.” He fell silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why would there be an injured Musketeer here along with one other? Why not just head back to Paris?”

 

Daumont looked at him, unable to provide any answers to Faulcon’s questions. Faulcon looked sharply at the other man. “Go back and talk to the innkeeper and find out if it was just the two of them.”

 

The man turned on his heel to complete his task, while Faulcon bent to slap Aramis’ face, beginning to wonder exactly how hard he’d been hit that he was still unconscious. As he leaned over the man, Faulcon noticed the older, barely healed gash on the man’s temple, indicating a recent head wound, which could explain the man’s current state. Deciding to try his luck with the second man, Faulcon repeated his actions with d’Artagnan, slapping him roughly a couple times until he was rewarded with a moan followed by the fluttering of the man’s eyelids as he struggled to wake.

 

Faulcon took a step backwards, being mindful of the man’s legs, knowing that just because the man was injured didn’t mean that he was helpless. As he watched, d’Artagnan managed to open his eyes, blinking them repeatedly in an effort to focus. When he did, he was met with the image of a tall, unkempt man, whose beard and hair needed a trim and whose clothes, although inexpensively tailored, were in desperate need of a good wash. A frown creased the young man’s face as his fuzzy mind tried to understand who this man was and why he was viewing him from such a strange perspective. He rolled his head to the side and noticed another body beside him, which just added to his confusion. “Wha?” he mumbled.

 

Faulcon watched the young man with amusement, enjoying the fact that he had the other man at a disadvantage. He waited patiently as the man tried to orient himself, finally noticing that he wasn’t alone on the ground, but still not comprehending his situation. Deciding he’d had enough, Faulcon whistled and snapped his fingers, “Over here,” he said, getting the man’s attention. “You and your friend are Musketeers,” he stated.

 

“Wha?” d’Artagnan repeated, uncertain of why this man was stating the obvious. He wriggled clumsily into a somewhat upright position, managing to lean on the elbow of his uninjured arm as he squinted at the man above him with a mixture of puzzlement and trepidation.

 

“My friends and I have captured you,” Faulcon continued, “and quite easily, I’m happy to add.”

 

The comment brought another scowl to d’Artagnan’s face as his mind began to process some of what he was hearing and recall the events leading up to his capture. “Who are you?” he asked with a grimace, the fire in his arm reminding him of his untimely fall.

 

“My name is Faulcon. I believe we are the reason for your presence in our town.”

 

“The reason for our presence,” the Gascon repeated to himself. Stopping as understanding dawned, he said, “You’re the prisoners we were sent to find.”

 

The man gave a mock bow and grinned, “At your service.”

 

“Why are you here?” d’Artagnan pressured. “”We thought you long gone and would have returned to Paris tomorrow, empty-handed.”

 

Faulcon shrugged, “An inconvenient twist of fate. A friend convinced the Comte that we were being hidden at one of the farms and you were supposed to ride there today so we could steal some horses and be on our way as well. It was just poor luck that you didn’t believe the Comte and chose not to follow his lead.”

 

d’Artagnan processed the man’s words, realizing that he believed it was just him and Aramis at the inn. “Why not proceed with your plan? You could still take the horses and go.”

 

“Sadly, fate has a cruel sense of humour. Everyone but you and your friend has left the inn, taking their mounts with them. So instead of horses, we have Musketeers.”

 

“Having Musketeers will do you little good. You should just leave now while you have the chance,” d’Artagnan recommended.

 

“Under normal circumstances I might agree with you, but the Comte has been particularly difficult to separate from his coin. With you in our hands, that will change,” Faulcon explained.

 

“What do you mean?” d’Artagnan probed, his stomach sinking.

 

“Surely the Comte can be convinced to pay a sizable ransom for the safe return of the King’s guard. I imagine his Majesty would be quite put out if anything were to happen to you.”

 

“Then you’re going to be disappointed, Faulcon. We are soldiers and our lives are at the mercy of the King. He will not pressure anyone to pay for our safety, nor would he do so himself. We are expendable,” d’Artagnan stated with conviction.

 

Faulcon looked unconvinced as he responded, “Perhaps, perhaps not.” Changing the topic, he nodded at d’Artagnan’s bound arm, “How did you come to be injured?” The Gascon glared at him, choosing to stay silent. “Come now, it is a simple enough question and you divulge no state secrets by answering.”

 

“I fell,” d’Artagnan replied through gritted teeth.

 

Faulcon hummed to himself, asking, “And your friend, did he fall also?”

 

At last d’Artagnan’s mind comprehended that it was Aramis lying beside him on the floor and he turned toward the man, eyes narrowing as he spotted the trail of blood on the man’s face. “What did you do to him?” he demanded.

 

“Corneul may have been a little enthusiastic when he knocked him out.”

 

d’Artagnan rounded on the other man as best he could while still on the floor, “You hit him in the head?” he nearly shouted. At the slight incline of Faulcon’s head, the Gascon exhaled slowly, trying to regain control over his emotions. Aramis had just been recovering from his last blow to the head; another so soon after the first could have dire consequences. Pinning their captor with an icy stare, he asked, “Has he woken at all?” Faulcon shook his head and the Gascon lay back, allowing his own head to drop to the floor as he contemplated what that might mean for his friend.

 

This new information changed things. Before it had been the two of them against the prisoners and, truthfully, it would have been more Aramis than him given his current physical state. With Aramis once again unconscious and his state of his mind unknown, d’Artagnan would need to protect the other man until Athos and Porthos returned. Taking a deep breath and forcing a calmness he didn’t feel, the Gascon again forced himself up, not wanting to be at even more of a disadvantage than he already was. In an even tone he asked, “May I check on him?”

 

After a moment’s hesitation the bandit nodded his approval and d’Artagnan eased up until he was fully sitting and then leaned over to brush the hair away from Aramis’ face so he could examine the new wound. This time, the blow had landed on the other temple, causing a nearly identical cut and rapidly swelling bruise on the opposite side of his face. The young man let out a soft sigh at the damage that had been done, thinking fondly that Aramis would not appreciate all the abuse that his fine features were receiving. Deciding to test the limits of his freedom, d’Artagnan made another request, “May I wet a cloth and clean the blood from his face? It may help to wake him.”

 

“I’ll concede your request as long as you agree to my terms.” The young man waited as the man continued. “For every request I allow, you will honestly answer one question for me.”

 

d’Artagnan considered the proposal momentarily before nodding his approval. He’d play the man’s game for now until the man asked a question he could not or would not answer.

 

“First question, what is your name?”

 

This was simple one and the Gascon didn’t hesitate to answer, “d’Artagnan.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the young man watched Faulcon carefully to confirm that he was now allowed to stand and gather a bowl of water and cloth to clean Aramis’ face. The man watched him carefully as he half-stumbled to gather the desired supplies, returning to slump again at his friend’s side before wetting the cloth and gently washing his face. d’Artagnan resisted the urge to call his friend’s name in an effort to wake him, knowing that this might be another easy answer that could gain him another request.

 

When he’d finished washing Aramis’ face and, sadly, had received not even the slightest signs of wakefulness, he posed his next question. “May I move him onto the bed? You’ve already tied his hands and feet so he won’t be any trouble, and I would feel better if he were resting on something softer than the floor.”

 

Faulcon raised an eyebrow at the request, already wondering how a man with only one functioning arm would manage such a feat, but he inclined his head, voicing his next question, “What is your friend’s name?”

 

The Gascon’s heart lightened for a moment at getting permission for his second request in exchange for such a simple question. “Aramis,” he answered. Faulcon watched as the Gascon raised himself to his knees, leaning forward to pull Aramis’ arms over his good shoulder, before pushing himself upwards with a grunt. It was incredibly awkward, and Aramis’ body was ill-balanced where it hung over his back, but d’Artagnan managed to carry him the few steps to the bed, releasing him gently before allowing the man to slowly recline onto the pillows. When he’d finished, the young man sat on the side of the bed, forcing himself to slow his breathing over the protest of his ribs and arm.

 

Faulcon remained where he was, a new appreciation on his face for the strength and determination he’d witnessed as the injured young man had cared for his friend. Heavy footfalls outside the room announced the presence of another as Daumont rejoined them. Holding up a hand to stay any words from the man, Faulcon pointed to d’Artagnan, saying, “I think it’s time we bind this man as we did his friend.” A questioning look appeared on Daumont’s face but he moved to comply, halted by the young man’s next request.

 

“Can you leave my arm free so I can care for my friend?” In truth, Faulcon had been half-expecting the request and had hoped for it one so that he might pose another question. Glancing at Daumont before returning his gaze to the Gascon, Faulcon asked, “How many of you are there?”

 

The bandit was impressed by the only momentary flicker of doubt in the young man’s eyes before he confidently answered, “Just the two of us.” Faulcon’s eyes met Daumont’s whose return gaze held the answer he’d been looking for. Motioning to Daumont to move forward with the rope he’d brought, Faulcon ordered, “Tie his ankles.” d’Artagnan felt a moment of relief before the man continued. “And bind his arm to the leg of the bed.” He fixed the young man with a cold stare, “I said you had to answer my questions truthfully but you lied.” With that the man turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving a frustrated d’Artagnan on the floor next to his friend’s bed, tied and unable to do anything other than wait for rescue.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos holstered his pistol and moved away from the stable, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender as he approached the inn. Porthos shook his head at his friend’s apparent lack of self-preservation, even as he carefully pointed his pistol toward the inn to protect his friend’s approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great reaction to the last chapter. Our boys are reunited in this one - enjoy!

As they’d ridden, Athos’ mind conjured one terrible outcome after another for his friends if their instincts about the men they’d been after were correct. He could see the same fears reflected in Porthos’ eyes the few times the path they travelled had widened enough for them to ride side by side. As they came within sight of the inn, they both slowed their horses, doing their best to stay out of view of the inn’s front windows. Dismounting behind the stable, they tied their horses and drew their pistols, staying low as they crept silently to the doors of the inn. Confirming Porthos’ readiness with a glance, Athos placed his hand on the door and exerted gentle but steady pressure. The door didn’t yield, a sure sign that it was locked from the inside. Easing away again, the two men made their way back to the stables where they could remain out of sight and regroup.

 

“Seems odd that an inn would close its doors in the middle of the day, don’t it?” Porthos observed.

 

Athos was peering around the corner of the stable, looking for other potential entrances. “Thoughts?” he asked the other man.

 

Porthos conducted his own examination of the inn and recalled what he knew of the layout. “There’s a door at the back leading to the kitchen,” he suggested.

 

“Probably barred also unless our prisoners are complete morons,” the two men shared a look, “so, worth checking.”

 

“There’s the second floor windows,” Porthos offered, “if we could find a ladder, I could get in one of those and unlock the door for you.”

 

“That’s a very gracious offer on your part, Porthos,” the larger man grinned at Athos, “especially considering you’d have to fight your way through at least four men to reach the door.”

 

Porthos shrugged and grinned, “What are friends for?”

 

“So we have no way in and our friends are likely in the hands of our escaped prisoners. Anything I’ve missed?” Athos queried calmly.

 

“That’s about got it,” Porthos agreed.

 

“Then I suppose the direct approach will have to do.” Athos holstered his pistol and moved away from the stable, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender as he approached the inn. Porthos shook his head at his friend’s apparent lack of self-preservation, even as he carefully pointed his pistol toward the inn to protect his friend’s approach.

 

When he was 15 feet away from the door a voice halted him. “That’s close enough Musketeer. State your business.”

 

Lowering his arms slightly, Athos called back, “It seems you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, Monsieur. You know who I am but I know not who I’m addressing.”

 

“You may not know me, Musketeer, but you know _of_ me. I am one of the men you’ve been hunting at the Comte’s request.”

 

Athos inclined his head slightly, “Does this mean you’re here to surrender?”

 

A bark of laughter met his question, “I like you, Musketeer, but no, we have other plans.”

 

“I see,” Athos considered, “and are you amenable to sharing those plans?”

 

“All you need to know is that we’ll be lightening the Comte’s treasury before we leave here,” the voice returned.

 

“Then, might I enquire about the state of my fellow Musketeers?”

 

“d’Artagnan is fine,” the voice answered, “Aramis is still napping.”

 

“Ah,” Athos nodded, “yes, Aramis does like his sleep.” He answered neutrally as if unaffected by the implication that Aramis was unconscious. “I realize they may be troublesome to your plans, so I’d like to offer to take them off your hands.”

 

A second bark of laughter sounded from inside the inn. “I will have to decline your generous offer, Musketeer, your friends are integral to my plan.”

 

“May I ask in what way?” Athos countered.

 

Apparently feeling secure in his position, the man answered, “The Comte will pay a ransom to us for their release.”

 

Athos’ face fell, knowing that no one, including the Comte, would pay these men anything to secure his friends’ release. “I feel obligated to point out that you’ve been misled about the value of a Musketeer’s life. The Comte will no more pay a ransom for our friends than he would for the release of his stable boy.”

 

A long period of silence followed and Athos began to believe he’d miscalculated with his last comment. Finally, the voice reappeared, “You seem an educated man, Musketeer. What do you suggest?”

 

Athos cocked his head as though considering the man’s question, “Are you asking me to advise you about how you can steal from the Comte?”

 

“If you want to save your friends’ lives, then yes.”

 

Athos nodded, “Very well then. I’ll need the assistance of my fellow Musketeer who is far more experienced in these matters and we’ll need to come inside. It’s freezing out here and you cannot expect that we’ll blindly offer our assistance without first checking the status of our friends and while facing the prospect of freezing tonight.”

 

The voice inside seemed unsurprised by Athos’ demands and replied immediately, “Drop your weapons outside, your friend too, and then stand in front of the door. We’ll open it and let you in when we’re satisfied that you’re unarmed. Also, you’ll agree to have your hands bound while you’re in here. Do we have an understanding?”

 

“Agreed,” Athos replied. He looked over his shoulder, motioning for Porthos to join him, the larger man shaking his head at the situation Athos had just created, and removing his weapons to store them in the stable before he went. Athos removed his weapon’s belt also, throwing it to Porthos who secured them with his own before the two men moved to stand in front of the door as they’d been ordered.

 

The door opened slowly, a pistol pointing at them as someone inside examined them for weapons, and then was opened fully to allow the men to move inside. The heat of the inn was a welcome change from the cold in which they’d spent the last several hours. They were motioned to move further inside the common room and a man with rope approached them, motioning to their hands. Rolling his eyes, Porthos extended his arms in front of him, allowing the man to wrap the rope tightly around his wrists. When Athos had been similarly restrained, one of the men stepped forward to introduce himself, “I am Faulcon and I am the leader of this group, such as it is. You are?”

 

“Athos and Porthos of the King’s Musketeers,” the older man replied. “If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to see our friends before we continue our conversation.”

 

Faulcon motioned toward the stairs and as Porthos moved to follow Athos, the swarthy man found his path blocked by a pistol at his chest. Sensing his friend’s lack of movement, Athos paused and looked back, raising a questioning eyebrow at Faulcon. “Your friend will stay here while you visit the others.” Nodding to Porthos, Athos resumed his journey up the stairs and to the room they’d been sharing. Faulcon and another man followed him up and he was surprised to find the room unguarded; when he entered the room, he understood why.

 

Aramis lay on the far bed, deathly still and pale, an unpleasant reminder of the state he’d been in only a few days ago. Despite the fact that the man was obviously unconscious, ropes held his arms and legs. On the floor next to the bed, d’Artagnan leaned his back against the bedframe, his legs stretched out in front of him and tied at the ankles, and his uninjured arm tied firmly to the bed post. Athos could see the young man’s desire to speak as soon as he’d entered and he held up a hand that only the Gascon could see, indicating that he should remain silent.

 

Turning slightly, Athos watched Faulcon’s expression as he moved forward to his friends; seeing nothing adverse, he assumed permission to check on them. Arriving at the bed, he turned sideways to sit on it, allowing him a view of both his friends. As he leaned forward, he spoke to d’Artagnan in a normal tone of voice, ensuring its pitch carried easily to the bandits, lest they believe they were being deceived and reacted poorly. Athos gently lifted one eyelid and then the other, noting the uneven pupils and poor reaction in both of Aramis’ eyes. “You are well, d’Artagnan?”

 

The young man seemed flustered by the question, but responded anyway, “I’m fine, thank you.”

 

“Mmm,” Athos hummed, “And Aramis?”

 

“They hit him on the head,” the Gascon answered bitterly. “He hasn’t woken since it happened.”

 

“I see,” Athos replied.

 

“How did they catch you,” the Gascon questioned.

 

“They didn’t,” Athos explained dryly, “we have reached an accord and will be helping these men in exchange for your safe release.”

 

“What?” d’Artagnan spluttered, “You can’t help them. They’re thieves and they’re trying to rob the Comte.”

 

“I’m well aware,” Athos began.

 

“Then what were you thinking, giving yourselves up. Your duty is to _protect_ the King and the nobles, not to _coerce_ them into assenting to these men’s demands!”

 

Athos’ face grew cold as he addressed the young Gascon, “I assure you that I do not need to be lectured by you about my duty. I have been a Musketeer for many years and know far better than you the demands and sacrifices required.”

 

d’Artagnan’s jaw snapped closed at the reprimand which was a chilling reminder of the disquiet that had been growing between them. Clearly, he had overstepped again and failed in his promise to himself to follow the other man’s orders without question.

 

Before anything more could be said, a shout was heard from the main floor, moving the bandits to action. One man pushed Athos to his feet, moving him away from his friends, and positioning him within view of the open door with the pistol to his throat. When Faulcon was satisfied that his man had the Musketeer under control, he descended the stairs to find his men brawling with the fourth Musketeer. Moving decisively, he pulled his pistol and hit the side of the Musketeer’s head, stunning him sufficiently that the other bandits could gain an upper hand. Once he’d been subdued, the two men raised Porthos to his feet and pushed him towards the stairs, forcing him to walk while another held a pistol to his back.

 

When the bandit holding Athos saw his friends returning, he backed away a step, still aiming his pistol at the Musketeer. Faulcon was enraged by Porthos’ actions and ordered the two Musketeers bound to the chairs. When they had been tied at the ankles and chest, their arms moved behind them and retied, Faulcon turned to address Athos, wagging a finger at him accusingly. “We had an agreement,” he pointed at Porthos, “and your man broke it. There are consequences for betrayal.”

 

Athos remained silent, knowing that they would all take advantage of any opportunity to overpower their captors. He watched as the bandit motioned to one of his men, “Daumont, what did you find under the boy’s shirt?”

 

Daumont strode forward cockily, placing himself within a couple feet of the Gascon. “Looks like a broken arm to me.”

 

“A broken arm,” Faulcon grimaced in mock sympathy, “an extremely painful injury, wouldn’t you say.”

 

“Sure is,” Daumont grinned.

 

Faulcon addressed the Musketeers again, this time ensuring he had not only Porthos’ and Athos’ attention, but d’Artagnan’s as well. “Every time you try to fight against me or my men, I will punish him,” he pointed at the Gascon. “Daumont.”

 

The man closed the gap between himself and d’Artagnan, grinning wickedly before pulling his leg back and releasing a kick aimed at the young man’s arm. d’Artagnan wanted to be strong but the agony that ignited was overwhelming and a howl of pain escaped him, leaving him bent forward protectively over his damaged limb, shaking and panting. At the young man’s scream, Porthos looked ready to attack the bandits, regardless of the chair he was bound to, and a deep growl was pulled from his throat. Athos was somewhat less obvious in his reaction but his hands and jaw clenched at the treatment of their youngest member.

 

Faulcon allowed several moments for the Musketeers to fully comprehend the young man’s pain before addressing Athos, “Let me remind you of the reason you’re here, which is to assist me and my men.” He looked next at Porthos. “I’ll give you an hour to prepare a suitable plan to make us all rich. I’m certain that you understand what is at risk if you don’t.”

 

The bandits followed Faulcon out of the room, leaving the door open and the men to themselves, still sitting in stunned silence at the brutality of the men and the pain they’d inflicted upon d’Artagnan.

 

Porthos caught Athos’ eye and questioned softly, “This was your plan?”

 

Athos shrugged as much as his bindings allowed. “Not this last part, no, but we do need to come up with a plan that removes their advantage,” he said, referring to d’Artagnan and Aramis, “and allows us to put an end to this. Any ideas?” 

* * *

It took d’Artagnan several minutes to recover enough that he felt able to open his eyes; they’d closed at Daumont’s brutal kick, when he found his entire left side engulfed in an agony so great that he thought he might be ill. The shock of the blow had left him covered in a sheen of sweat and trembling hard as his mind tried to process the overwhelming pain he’d suffered. Now, lifting his head from his chest, he straightened to sit back against the bed, catching Porthos watching him carefully.

 

“d’Artagnan?” the swarthy man questioned, with worry etched into every feature of his face.

 

“I’m fine,” the Gascon managed, pleased by the strength he’d managed to put into the two words. The look on Porthos’ face indicated his obvious disagreement with the young man’s assertion, but he allowed the deception, knowing there was little to be done at the moment.

 

Across from him, Athos raised an eyebrow at Porthos who shook his head; now was not the time to push the boy, besides they had other things to worry about. As the two men talked in low tones, trying to develop a plan to remove them from their current situation, d’Artagnan tugged on his tied arm. The rough twine of the rope bit into his wrist and pulled the arm back uncomfortably, placing unnecessary strain on his healing ribs and, overall, causing him to feel even more miserable. Deciding that he could not sit idle while his two friends planned, he began to pull the rope at his wrist up and down along the bed post where it was attached, hoping to be able to weaken the fibres sufficiently to free himself. If nothing else, he would like to at least be able to check on his friend lying behind him, if needed.

 

If the two men noticed his actions, they gave no indication, heads leaning towards each other as much as their bindings allowed. At one point Porthos looked up at him, before returning to his hushed conversation with Athos and the boy found himself mildly annoyed that he had no say in what would happen next. He realized that both men had far more experience than he did with these sorts of situations, and Athos was an especially gifted strategist, but it made him wonder if the reasons for his exclusion stemmed from more than his relative inexperience with such things. He stared at Porthos for several seconds, wishing him to make eye contact, but the man remained in his hunched position, conversing with Athos.

 

Allowing a soft huff of frustration, d’Artagnan let his head fall back to rest on the bed behind him as he continued to work the rope at his wrist. As he continued in his efforts, he felt something at his head and realized that Aramis must be moving behind him. Shifting his body and craning his head around, he was able to see Aramis’ face and the right side of his body. He stayed in this position for many moments, waiting to see if the movement he’d felt earlier would be repeated; it finally was. It was Aramis’ right arm that lay next to d’Artagnan’s head and it was this same arm that now twitched again, catching d’Artagnan’s observant eyes. While the young man felt intense relief at his friend’s imminent return to consciousness, he found himself wishing that the man had remained asleep a little longer, at least until the Gascon had freed himself so that he could ease his friend’s return to wakefulness.

 

As expected, Aramis’ waking was slow and painful, a quiet moan signalling the pain that was throbbing through his head. Added to that was confusion, not remembering the events leading up to his current state, and panic when he discovered his limbs not only heavy and difficult to control but bound as well. As soon as d’Artagnan noticed the man attempting to prop open uncooperative eyelids, he began to murmur words of comfort to his friend, trying to keep him calm lest he react badly and injure himself further. “Aramis, be calm. I know you’re hurting and confused but know that all is well.” The young man was rewarded by another groan as he watched Aramis’ eyes roll around in his head, struggling to focus. “Aramis, it’s fine, we’re all here with you. Can you hear me, Aramis?”

 

He could see the panic beginning to take over as his friend remained unaware of the Gascon’s words and started to tug weakly at the bonds that held his wrists. A heartbreaking whimper escaped the man at his inability to free himself and d’Artagnan redoubled is efforts to calm his disoriented friend. “Aramis, stop, you must remain still. You’ll only hurt yourself. Athos and Porthos are here and we’ll be free soon. Please, stop.” d’Artagnan doubted that his friend comprehended the words he’d spoken, but the pleading in his tone seemed to have broken through the fog that was clouding the man’s mind. As he stilled, the Gascon breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank goodness. Aramis, can you look at me? How are you feeling?”

 

Aramis’ eyes slid sideways to meet the boy’s gaze but there was no recognition in his look. After staring at the young man for several moments, his eyes slid closed again and d’Artagnan could tell that he was no longer awake. He pulled his attention away from the man lying behind him and turned to face forward, meeting the expectant expressions of his other two comrades. “He’s asleep again,” he said. Neither man pressed for more, understanding that there was likely little else to add. As they returned to their discussion, d’Artagnan returned to his task of freeing his uninjured arm.

 

Unknown to him, Athos and Porthos had long since finished their strategizing and were now discussing their two injured friends. “Any more damage to that arm, ya think?” Porthos questioned, carefully avoiding the boy’s gaze.

 

“With any luck, the splint did its job and protected it. It’s highly doubtful that he would be as coherent as he is if the bones had shifted again.”

 

The larger man’s gaze travelled to Aramis, lying still in the bed across the room, and Athos read the longing in his friend’s eyes to be there as well. “It is not ideal, but others have suffered multiple head wounds in the past and have recovered. If anyone will do so, Aramis will.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed fondly, “he just likes to worry us, is all.” He tried to feel optimistic, but his face gave away how deeply troubled he was by his friend’s condition.

 

“Once we get them out of here, they’ll both be properly cared for at the Comte’s chateau,” Athos reminded him.

 

“Think they’ll go for it?” Porthos asked.

 

Athos shrugged, “They have little choice and I am confident of our abilities to be especially persuasive today.”

 

Porthos smiled slightly at his words, recognizing his friend’s attempt to assuage his worry. Seeing the pensive look on Athos’ face, he said, “That’ll finally give the two of you time to clear the air.”

 

Athos’ face turned dark at the reminder that things were not well between himself and the boy, and the only way that would change would be for him to confess what had been troubling him over the past weeks. Correctly interpreting the dismay on his friend’s face at the thought of the conversation awaiting him, Porthos continued, “He has a big heart and he loves you more than anything. There’s no doubt he’ll forgive your stupidity,” he grinned.

 

“I thank you for always being honest in your assessment of my behaviour,” Athos retorted wryly, “but my recent actions may be somewhat more difficult to forgive, given how far things seem to have progressed.”

 

“Ay, I’ve no doubt that you’ve made it harder on yourself by waiting,” the larger man teased, then softening before he finished, “but I have no doubt that you’ll make things right. You’re a good and honorable man Athos, and no one knows that better than d’Artagnan. He doesn’t follow you blindly; he understands your failings and accepts you despite them, just as we all do.”

 

“Thank you,” Athos whispered, lowering his head as he absorbed his friend’s words.

 

They were saved from further discussion by Faulcon’s reappearance, Daumont trailing behind him, moving to stand next to the Gascon once they’d entered the room. The tall man looked expectantly at the two Musketeers, d’Artagnan watching as well since he had no part in their planning.

 

“Have you a wagon at your disposal?” Athos queried.

 

Faulcon looked at him questioningly, suggesting “It’s likely we can borrow one from our hosts.”

 

Athos tipped his head in agreement. “Then I recommend that we do so and move my two injured comrades into it and prepare to travel to the Comte’s chateau.” At the bandit’s raised eyebrow, Athos questioned, “How is your knowledge of Greek mythology?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Images of bodies lying in the snow assaulted him and Aramis could swear he smelled the unmistakable iron scent of blood. “Where are my friends?” he prodded, overcome with a sense of dread.
> 
> Fontaine shrugged, “They are gone. You’re the only one here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter! Many of you commented about Athos' question regarding Greek mythology, which was a loose (very loose) nod toward the concept of the Trojan horse. Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The plan was brilliant in its simplicity; Athos would ride ahead of the men, announcing himself at the Comte’s chateau, asking for help for his wounded brothers. The wagon would follow with his friends and two of the bandits in the back, the other two driving it. Since Athos was known to not only the Comte but to several of his men after his recent visit, it was hoped that the man’s arrival and plea for help would be accepted at face value, allowing all of them to slip easily through the impressive gates that protected the Comte’s house from attack. Once inside, the bandits would “help” the Musketeers to their rooms, binding them once again, and leaving a man with d’Artagnan to prevent the others from raising an alarm. Once finished, they would exit through the gates since their task of _aiding_ the Musketeers and their wounded comrades was completed.

 

Athos and Porthos chafed at being retied, and d’Artagnan bit his lip when his badly abraded wrist was attached to another bed post, again sitting on the floor next to the bed where Aramis had been laid. This time it was the smaller, weasel-like man, Corneul, who stayed with them, while the others departed enthusiastically to empty the Comte’s vault. Taking no chances, Corneul had positioned his chair several feet away from all three of the bound Musketeers and sat with his pistol levelled at the Gascon’s chest, lest the others try anything.

 

Porthos looked beseechingly at Athos, “Surely we’re not gonna let them get away with this?”

 

Athos replied evenly, “At the moment, I don’t think there’s really much else that we can do.”

 

The inactivity grated at Porthos’ nerves and the half hour that passed before the bandits returned seemed to stretch on forever. When the three men re-entered the room, it was with wide grins and satchels weighted down with the results of their efforts. Faulcon nodded to his man, “All went well?” At the man’s return nod, Faulcon grinned even wider. “Then, gentleman,” he said, addressing Athos and Porthos, “I believe it is time to take our leave. Daumont?”

 

Daumont moved forward to stuff large wads of cloth into each man’s mouth before securing the gags with an additional piece of fabric tied at the back of each man’s head. Athos and Porthos gave Faulcon twin glares at the unexpected action. “I know it is unpleasant, but we can’t have your shouting for help as soon as we’ve left.”

 

As Daumont finished, Faulcon moved to where d’Artagnan was sitting and leaned forward to whisper into the man’s ear. “If you call out or do anything that prevents us from leaving, I will come back here and gut your friends. Understood?” The Gascon nodded numbly at the bandit’s words. Moving back from the young man, Faulcon motioned to Corneul who stepped forward and cut the rope attaching him to the bed frame, cutting the rope that bound his legs next.

 

He was roughly pushed to his feet, stifling a groan caused by the movement and caught his two brothers’ outraged looks. He shook his head as he passed them, “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright.”

 

Faulcon stopped at the door to the room, turning to speak to the two Musketeers, “We’ll ride south for two hours and then leave him. You can come and collect him once you’ve freed yourselves, which, at this rate, I expect will not be until morning. Adieu, gentleman,” he tipped his head to the men as he departed, taking the Comte’s gold and their brother with him. Athos’ shoulders drooped and his head dropped while across from him, Porthos vibrated with rage; how quickly things had deteriorated.

* * *

The Gascon had been hustled out of the chateau as quickly as possible without raising suspicion. Fortunately for the men, but unfortunately for him, the Comte was out for the evening and most of the household staff had retired early, leaving the hallways eerily empty. The bandits’ luck held as they entered the Comte’s stables, locating horses for all of them and saddling them swiftly. d’Artagnan at least was spared the mockery of having to saddle his own mount, but he stared grim-faced at the men, already anticipating how the ache in his arm and side would escalate once he was in the saddle.

 

The men were nothing but efficient with the horses’ tack and the Gascon found himself being pushed onto a horse, gasping as the shove he received from behind caused him to overbalance and place pressure on his broken bones. Determined, he pulled himself properly into the saddle, glaring at the man who’d unnecessarily caused him pain. His staring was interrupted by Peron who roughly grabbed his uninjured arm and tied it to the saddle, handing the horse’s reins to Daumont who would lead it.

 

Taking a last look to see that his men were ready, Faulcon gave the order for them to exit, giving d’Artagnan a glare that promised his friends a painful death if he tried anything as they left. The young man huffed in annoyance and nodded in understanding, wanting to get going already so the men would release him. The temperature outside had dropped with the setting sun, which was casting its last rays on the ground. The Gascon shivered, still dressed only in his shirt, breeches and boots. At least the men had afforded him and Aramis the comfort of blankets in the wagon, even though that had likely been more to keep up appearances than anything else. Now, the young man now felt immensely vulnerable with nothing more than the thin linen of his shirt to protect him from the biting cold, and he shivered again involuntarily.

 

As they passed through the gates, Faulcon looked at him with a glint of amusement, “Cold?” The Gascon said nothing, determined not to give these men the satisfaction of seeing his suffering. “Thought the Musketeers were of hardier stock,” the man mocked with a grin. Their progress was slow but steady as they followed a well-worn path through the snow, relying on the bright moon and their knowledge of the area to correctly find their way.

 

d’Artagnan lost track of time as he body’s ailments made themselves known, the ache in his bones intensified by the constant shivering that he could no longer contain. His tied hand was completely numb, despite his diligence in flexing his fingers regularly to ensure continued blood flow. His other arm was thankfully warmer, strapped against his body and underneath his shirt, but the cold penetrated the damaged bone, causing a fire that engulfed his entire arm up to the shoulder. As a result of his continual pain, he’d broken out in a cold sweat that covered most of his upper body, making him even colder as the moisture turned to frost against his skin.

 

"Halt,” Faulcon brought their party to a stop, a fact noticed by the Gascon only when his horse jolted abruptly, sending another bolt of pain through his arm.

 

Forcing himself to hold the man's gaze, d'Artagnan slurred through numb lips, “Here, already?”

 

Daumont sidled his horse next to d’Artagnan’s, pulling a blade from his boot as Faulcon spoke, “Please remind your friends, should they find you in time, that they have a choice. They can choose to follow us or they can choose to save your life – by the time they reach you, they will not have time to do both.” With those words, Daumont cut the rope binding d’Artagnan to the saddle and gave a forceful push that had the young man toppling sideways to the ground. With the breath knocked out of him, the Gascon couldn’t even scream at the pain that erupted before he passed out. The bandits took the reins of the now riderless horse and turned their backs on the man they’d most likely condemned to death with their actions.

* * *

Porthos had immediately begun to struggle against his bonds as the men had left with d’Artagnan. Giving up the young man had most definitely not been part of the plan, regardless of how fluid their plans often seemed to be. Athos had tested his bonds earlier and, while he was just as eager to be free, he did not have confidence in their ability to accomplish the task without help.

 

Fate looked kindly upon the men an hour after the bandits’ departure when a servant entered the room bearing dinner for the Musketeers, per the Comte’s earlier instructions. The man startled at the sight before him and he almost dropped the tray he carried at the intensity of the men’s gazes. An angry motion of Athos’ head and an inarticulate grumble from Porthos had the man moving to release them, thankfully starting by removing their gags. As soon as he could speak, Athos ordered the man, “Release my hands and then have two horses saddled for us. We’ll be departing immediately.”

 

At Athos’ words, Porthos’ gaze swung to their unconscious friend, a questioning look on his face. “And send for a physician. Our friend has suffered a second head wound in less than a week. Let the physician know that he awoke briefly, but was disoriented.”

 

The man nodded and finished removing the rope from Athos’ wrists and chest, backing away quickly as the Musketeer bent forward to untie his ankles before releasing Porthos. “I’ll go see what weapons the Comte has available for our use while you check on Aramis. Meet me at the stables as soon as you’re done.”

 

Porthos nodded and moved shakily to his friend’s side, uncertain what he would find after so many hours of worry. Sitting next to the man, Porthos’ hand went to his friend’s face, gently sweeping away the unruly curls that hid his newest injury. “Oy, Aramis, why does this keep happening to you, my friend?” His gaze moved next to the man’s tied hands and feet and, disgusted, he grabbed a knife from the dinner tray and used it to saw through the man’s bindings. Taking Aramis’ hand in his, Porthos spent several minutes rubbing the blood back into the cold hands before resting them at his side. Through all of this Aramis lay unmoving and Porthos’ heart clenched in fear at his friend’s continued stillness.

 

“We’ve got to leave you for a bit, Aramis, but you’re safe,” Porthos told his friend. “The lad’s gotten himself into a bad spot again and needs us to go rescue him.” The large man squeezed Aramis’ arm. “You rest and get better. I want to be able to see those eyes of yours when we return.” Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on the man’s forehead, then rose and left the room without a backwards glance.

 

Outside, Athos helped the stable boy with the last of the horses’ tack, moving to hand Porthos a belt laden with a sword and pistol when he arrived. Porthos’ eyed the weapons narrowly, wishing for the comforting weight of his own, but quickly placed the belt around his hips before taking the reins of his horse from Athos’ hands. “Any idea where they’ve gone?”

 

Athos’ gaze was dark as he answered, “They said south. We’ll have to hope that in this, at least, they were honorable.”

 

The two men swung into their saddles, moving swiftly through the gates and onto the path leading south. They were unfamiliar with their route, having approached the chateau from the west, and relied on the horses’ senses to keep them from straying off the snow-covered road. They pushed the horses as much as they dared, but it still made for long periods of walking, interspersed with short trots, when the compacted snow levelled enough to allow the faster pace. A full hour passed in silence, both men extending their senses for anything that seemed out of place; neither man would put it past Faulcon to set an ambush and they had to move with caution despite their desire for speed.

 

Porthos was the first to spot the bundle lying to the left of the path they followed. He pointed to Athos, even as he called the man’s name and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks to cover the remaining distance. Sliding neatly from his horse, Porthos found himself kneeling beside the Gascon’s body, which lay on its side, face turned down into the snow. The man was utterly motionless and for a moment, Porthos found himself paralyzed by the same fears he’d had when they’d discovered the men out in the snow several days before. Athos stood several steps away, unable to move and dreading that his worst fears might prove to be true.

 

Removing a glove, Porthos placed a hand on the boy’s neck, feeling only frozen skin. Gently, he turned the boy onto his back, placing an ear to the man’s chest. He was rewarded with a fluttering beat, the Gascon’s chest rising sporadically as he drew breath. “He’s alive,” Porthos declared.

 

Athos’ staggered to his knees beside the young man, placing a gloved hand on the boy’s chest and hanging his head in relief, grateful that his fears were as yet unfounded. Seconds later he lifted his head, pinning Porthos with an intense glare. “I will see them hang for this.”

 

Porthos was unsurprised by his friend’s sentiment and nodded, “Later. We need to get him back and warmed up…again.”

 

Athos rose to his feet, “Can you manage him on your horse?”

 

Porthos brow furrowed at the request, having expected that the boy would ride with Athos instead. Examining his friend carefully, he spoke with dismay, “You’re plannin’ to go after them.”

 

“I must,” the older man admitted. “But d’Artagnan cannot wait. You must take him back and have him seen to and then keep both of them safe until I return.”

 

“No!” Porthos cried, vehemently. “Don’t do this, Athos, come back with us. We’ll both go after them once the boy is safe.”

 

Athos shook his head. “Have faith, my friend. This is no self-sacrificing bid for revenge. It was my plan that allowed the bandits to steal from the Comte and they must be brought to justice. We both know that their trail will be lost if I do not follow it now.”

 

Athos could see the turmoil on his friend’s face and felt guilty at placing such a burden on the man. Finally, Porthos nodded his head, “I’ll turn round and follow you as soon as d’Artagnan’s safe.” Athos looked like he might protest, but the glare on Porthos’ face made him reconsider and the older man simply squeezed Porthos’ arm in thanks.

 

Together, the two men managed to get d’Artagnan onto the horse and Porthos positioned the boy firmly against his chest for the ride. Handing his pistol to Athos, he ordered, “Be safe and leave signs for me if you’re able.” Turning his horse, he began his journey back to the chateau.

* * *

True to his word, the Comte’s servant had sent for a physician and within the hour the man was seated beside his latest patient. Examining the wound on Aramis’ head, the man muttered under his breath, “How did you manage to get hit on the head again? Thought your friends would have taken better care of you.”

 

The Comte’s man hovered uncertainly in the background and moved quickly when the physician instructed him to bring clean water and a cloth. Lifting Aramis’ eyelids, the physician tutted unhappily at the unevenness of the man’s pupils, trying next to wake his patient by pinching an earlobe and rubbing knuckles along his sternum. The latter act prompted a moan of discomfort and a quick intake of air as Aramis struggled to wake. The physician added a gentle slap on the man’s cheek, stopping when the water he’d requested arrived so that he could clean the blood off his patient’s face instead.

 

Aramis was trying desperately to move through the mud that seemed to be holding him, his limbs feeling leaden and eyelids too heavy to lift. His head throbbed terribly and he was gripped by an overwhelming fear, but couldn’t identify its source. A harsh intake of air cleared some of the mists clouding his thinking and he became aware of a hand on his face. Another sensation soon followed, and he turned into the touch, smelling water and feeling the dampness at his temple. The wetness seemed odd and lifted him to another level of consciousness, brow furrowing as he tried to understand what was happening. A voice now accompanied the sensation and he focused on it, doing his best to do as it commanded.

 

“Wake now, young man. From what I understand, you’ve been asleep for far too long and have scared your friends,” the physician spoke quietly as he worked to wash the blood from the handsome man’s face.

 

Aramis managed to squint between slitted lids before closing his eyes against the light of the room. The physician called again to the servant standing by the door, “Put out all but the lanterns except the one closest to you.” When the man had moved to carry out his instructions, the physician placed a supportive hand on his patient’s chest, “It’s darker now; you can open your eyes again.”

 

Aramis moved to comply, blinking several times to focus on the man above him. “Who?” he mumbled, his voice hoarse with disuse.

 

The physician quirked his lips into a smile, bringing a cup of water to Aramis’ lips and lifting his head slightly as he tipped the cup, allowing the man to drink. With his head replaced on the pillow, Aramis repeated his question, “Who are you?”

 

“My name is Fontaine, I am the physician who tended you earlier,” the man smiled again. “Imagine my surprise to have you as my patient again and with another head wound, no less.”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed and his lifted a shaky hand to his head, intending to examine the wound, but Fontaine caught his hand and replaced it at his side. “I don’t think that would feel very good.”

 

“What happened?” Aramis asked, confusion still clear on his face.

 

“What do you remember?” Fontaine countered.

 

Aramis spoke slowly as he searched his scattered memories for the information he sought. “There was a mission, in the snow. I remember the cold,” he said as he shuddered. “Is that right?” he asked Fontaine as he tried to make sense of the few images he could recall.

 

“Yes, your friends found you outside, half-frozen and with a head-wound.”

 

Images of bodies lying in the snow assaulted him and Aramis could swear he smelled the unmistakable iron scent of blood. “Where are my friends?” he prodded, overcome with a sense of dread.

 

Fontaine shrugged, “They are gone. You’re the only one here.”

 

Aramis’ breathing quickened until he was practically gasping for air, his eyes staring unseeing past the physician’s head as he muttered with increasing anxiety, “No, they’re dead, I’m the only one left…left in the snow, to die…nothing but my dead brothers for company. No!”

 

With a last cry, Aramis surprised Fontaine by rolling himself out of the bed, scrambling across the floor on hands and knees until he reached the corner of the room. There, he pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around his legs, hiding his face in his knees, as he continued his nonsensical mutterings and his entire body trembled with shock. The two men in the room stared dazedly at their patient who had, within moments, moved from his lethargic state to complete panic. Fontaine tried to assure the servant, “Head wounds often cause confusion.”

 

Pulling a small vial from his bag, the physician added several drops to the cup of water next to him. Standing from his seat, the man moved forward slowly, calling to Aramis so he didn’t startle him further. When he was within a foot of the injured man, Fontaine risked placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, causing Aramis’ head to jerk upright as his body swayed sideways with the motion. The physician held him steady and offered the cup of water, as Aramis laboured to focus pain-filled eyes. “Drink,” Fontaine said, gesturing to the cup in his hand. When Aramis did nothing, Fontaine risked bringing the cup to the man’s lips, dribbling some of the water into Aramis’ mouth. He watched with satisfaction as Aramis’ throat moved as he swallowed, and leaned back on his haunches to wait for the draught to take effect.

 

Drugging a man with a head injury was not ideal, but still preferable to allowing him to come to more harm due to the confusion he was currently experiencing. The mix he’d used was a powerful one and, combined with Aramis’ injury-induced weakness, it only took a few minutes for it to take effect. Fontaine watched as the tension ebbed from his patient’s body and his blinking slowed until the man’s eyes stayed closed. Motioning to the servant to help him, Fontaine moved quickly to prevent Aramis from sliding sideways, and together the two men lifted him back onto the bed.

 

Releasing a sigh of relief, Fontaine addressed the Comte’s man, “I’ll be staying to watch over him. Bring me something to eat and drink and stoke up the fire. If I need anything more, I’ll ring for you.” Thus dismissed, the man exited while Fontaine retook his seat at his patient’s side, rewetting the cloth he’d used earlier and placing it on Aramis’ brow. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to make this easy for me?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hoarse yell was pulled from Aramis as he struggled to differentiate between the images from his nightmares and his foreign surroundings. Immediately, he began scrambling to get out of bed, fighting with the blankets that covered him as his natural coordination abandoned him in his panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to read and comment - it was great hearing your thoughts about the last chapter's turn of events. Hope you enjoy this next one!

Porthos had pulled d’Artagnan back against his chest, wrapping his cloak around both of them in an effort to begin warming the boy. He kept one hand over the young man’s heart, reassured by its beating as he urged his horse forward. If the journey to follow the bandits’ trail seemed interminable, the path back seemed doubly so and Porthos couldn’t prevent a curse, spoken in relief, as he approached the gates of the chateau.

 

Sliding from his horse, he handed the reins off to the stable boy before carefully removing d’Artagnan from the mount. Carrying the boy with a hand under his knees and another at his back, he was gratified to feel the boy’s breath at his neck as the young man’s head lolled against his shoulder. Storming through the doors of the chateau, Porthos strode directly to the room they’d been given upon their arrival hours earlier. He stopped short when he entered the dimly lit space, shocked to see someone sitting next to Aramis’ bed.

 

“Who’re you?” he asked suspiciously.

 

Fontaine was just as surprised at the man now addressing him and it took him a moment to find his voice, “I am Fontaine,” at Porthos’ narrowed gaze, he quickly added, “the physician.”

 

“Good,” Porthos said as he moved inside with d’Artagnan, finally recalling the man from earlier, “you have another patient.” The large man looked around for somewhere to lay his friend, but there was only the one bed in the room. Fontaine solved the problem for him by indicating the rug in front of the fireplace, moving to place a blanket down so Porthos could settle the Gascon there.

 

“What happened to him?” the physician asked as he knelt to inspect his newest patient.

 

“Exposure, for sure,” Porthos started, “for a couple hours at least. Other than that, I’m not sure. Found ‘im in the snow again.”

 

Fontaine could hear the undercurrent of bitterness in the other man’s tone and hurried to check the boy over so he might assure them both of the young man’s relative well-being. “Ring for someone to bring heated water skins, will you?” the man said as he started undressing the young man. Porthos did as he’d been asked, returning to lift the Gascon’s torso so they could manoeuver him out of his shirt. The physician scowled as he unwrapped and pressed on the young man’s ribs, “Was he kicked?”

 

Porthos shrugged, leaning forward to look at the Gascon’s side where Fontaine was now pointing. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. The bruises there were now a couple days old and certainly not from this latest round of trouble, but Porthos could clearly make out the shape of a boot print on the young man’s flank. The larger man considered what d’Artagnan had told him of his time with Aramis, but could recall no mention of being harmed by anything other than his fall down the incline. “If he was, he didn’t mention it.”

 

“His ribs are no worse than before,” the physician stated, moving to remove the sling and splint from the broken arm. As soon as the bandages were removed, it became clear that the young man’s arm had taken the brunt of the damage from his time with the bandits. The bones had been displaced, evidenced by the grotesque bump and swollen skin around the break. Fontaine leaned back, sighing at the damage. Making eye contact with the man across from him he stated, “I’ll need to set the bone before we re-wrap it. It cannot wait and the pain will be great.”

 

Porthos knew this already, having suffered broken bones in the past. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

 

“Hold him down so that he doesn’t interfere while I take care of it. With any luck he’ll remain unconscious,” Fontaine offered, but Porthos knew that their luck wasn’t typically that good.

 

Positioning himself at d’Artagnan’s head, Porthos leaned his weight onto the young man’s shoulders, prepared to hold him if he should wake. When they were ready, Fontaine took the broken arm in his, stabilizing it near the elbow and pulling on the wrist to realign the separated bones. d’Artagnan’s eyes came open with a start as the physician pulled on his arm, a guttural yell pulled from his throat. The tug on his arm was momentary, but the agony remained, and the young man could feel the bile rising as he helplessly turned his head to one side. Porthos acted quickly, correctly interpreting the signs, and rolled the boy further to his side, holding him there as d’Artagnan emptied his stomach and gagged from the pain. The Gascon whimpered in between heaves as the position he was in aggravated his broken ribs, and Porthos felt tears in his eyes at the sounds the young man was making. When it was finally over, d’Artagnan’s eyes had closed and he panted weakly, grimacing with the ache in his side and arm while Porthos murmured words of comfort in his ear.

 

Fontaine could see the anguish in the Musketeer’s face at the pain they’d caused his friend, and he moved quickly to replace the splint and bind the arm to minimize its movement. When he was finished, the physician collected a small bottle from his bag and tipped it to the young man’s mouth, allowing a few drops to enter. As Porthos stroked the damp hair off the young man’s brow, Fontaine watched the boy relax and he released a breath when it was evident that the boy had again fallen unconscious. “It’s alright now,” he said to the Musketeer, “he’s sleeping.”

 

Porthos looked up at the man’s words and realized that his friend had indeed fallen asleep, and he closed his own eyes for a moment to calm himself from the ordeal of having to hold the young man down while Fontaine had caused him pain. When he’d sufficiently collected himself, Porthos addressed the physician, “Will he be alright?”

 

Fontaine nodded, understanding that this man desperately needed some good news about his two injured brothers. “We’ll need to warm him up again and he’ll need to rest for several days before moving, but he’s young and I expect he’ll recover.” Porthos tipped his head in gratitude. “Your other friend,”

 

“Aramis,” Porthos reminded him.

 

“Yes, Aramis, he woke earlier,” he paused at the Musketeer’s expectant look, “I’m sure he’s only confused because of the head wound, but he was quite agitated.”

 

“What do mean, agitated?” Porthos prompted.

 

Fontaine looked apologetic as he explained, “He rolled off the bed and ended up in the corner of the room. He seemed quite beside himself when I told him you were gone and he was here alone. I never would have said anything if I’d known he’d react so badly.”

 

Porthos processed the man’s words, taking a steadying breath, “You told him his friends were gone?” At Fontaine’s nod, he went on, “Several years ago, Aramis was part of a group that was attacked in Savoy. He was the only survivor and was alone for several days, in the snow and cold, before we found him. He’d suffered a head wound then as well. Sometimes, being in the woods in wintertime reminds him of what he endured.”

 

“Ah,” the physician’s face held nothing but sympathy. “Then we must work to reassure him that his friends are alive and well, and that this is not Savoy.”

 

Fontaine’s words seemed to prod Porthos’ memory and he moved to stand as he realized how much time he’d already lost. “I know this is a lot to ask, but can you stay and look after them for me?” The physician was clearly taken aback by the request, especially given the bond he’d observed between these men. “Athos, our other friend, has gone after the men who did this. I have to ride after him.”

 

Fontaine could see how torn the man was and didn’t want to make things any more difficult for him. “Of course, I promise you I will not leave their sides. But,” he paused, “do you really believe that is the best course of action given Aramis’ disoriented state?”

 

Porthos bit his lip as he admitted, “No, probably not, but if anything happens to Athos, Aramis will never forgive either of us.”

 

It was clear to Fontaine that Porthos would have to go after his friend and he accepted the other man’s words with a tilt of his head. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of two servants bearing water skins filled with warm water. As the physician placed the water skins next to d’Artagnan’s cold skin, Porthos took one of the men aside asking, “Is there someone who can take a message to Paris?” At the man’s affirmative reply, he turned to address Fontaine, “I’m going to send a message to Paris to advise our Captain of the situation and I’ll leave word with the Comte, requesting you be allowed to stay with our friends for the next few days. One way or the other, you’ll have Musketeers with you within three days.” With that, Porthos followed the servant from the room to do as he’d explained before returning to his horse to follow Athos.

* * *

A less experienced tracker would have missed the change in direction the four men had taken, but Athos had grown up being tutored in a variety of skills required of a nobleman, including those needed to track and hunt one’s prey; the animal being sought might be different, but the skills translated nicely. Removing a flask from his hip, he poured a wine-colored arrow in the snow for Porthos to indicate his new direction.

 

Grateful for the moonlight that illuminated the snowy road to the west, Athos maintained his vigilance as he continuously scanned the path ahead of him, as well as to both sides, paying special attention to those sections where an ambush might be mounted. When he heard voices ahead, he slowed his pace further, straining his ears to discern what was being said. He caught snatches of the conversation, including the words “Comte”, “Paris”, “Daumont”, and “Musketeers”.

 

Satisfied that he’d successfully located his prey, Athos pulled both pistols, allowing the horse’s reins to go slack and trusting that it would continue to move forward without his guidance. Catching his first glimpse of the men ahead, he lined up his first shot, scoring a hit as his intended target fell with a cry. Wasting no time, he followed immediately with a second successful shot, before allowing both pistols to drop from his hands and retaking the reins, spurring the horse forward at the two remaining men.

 

The bandits had been caught unaware and one man sat in his saddle, staring dumbly at his two fallen comrades. The other pulled his sword in anticipation of the Musketeer’s arrival, prepared to cross blades as soon as the man was within striking distance. Athos understood that the advantage of fighting on horseback was in the speed of the attack, which magnified one’s hit. As such, he pulled his sword and raised his arm in preparation, slashing at the man as he passed by, managing to avoid the man’s own clumsy blow and knocking him from his horse. As soon as he’d ridden past, Athos brought the horse up short and into a tight turn, circling back to deal with the last man who was still mounted. Corneul, Athos’ brain supplied, was preparing to fire his pistol as Athos bore down on him and a quick flip of the Musketeer’s wrist had the weapon flying out of the bandit’s hand. He followed this disarming move with a well-placed thrust, embedding his blade in the man’s chest. As Corneul fell back off his horse, Athos gripped his sword tightly, allowing the bandit’s weight to slide the body off his blade.

 

A graceful dismount followed, placing Athos in front of the stunned bandit he’d unbalanced enough to remove from his horse. Faulcon looked up at him from the ground, weighing his options. Deciding that the man in front of him would not needlessly kill an unarmed man, he raised himself slowly to his feet, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

 

“Pick up your sword, Monsieur,” Athos ordered.

 

“And if I decline?” Faulcon countered.

 

“It is no matter; you are a wanted criminal in possession of the Comte’s property. No one will question if you do not return to face justice,” Athos informed him darkly. Raising an eyebrow, he offered, “Unless you’re surrendering to me, instead?”

 

Recognizing he had little choice, Faulcon picked up his blade from where it had fallen and prepared to defend himself. Athos moved with patience and skill, waiting for Faulcon to lunge at him and blocking his thrusts with relative ease. After the fourth such unsuccessful strike, Athos could see his opponent becoming frustrated, sacrificing any form he may have had for brute force. The two men’s swords clanged as they hit, Athos blocking yet another strike and then moving swiftly to land one of his own across the man’s back, making the bandit stumble forward several steps before he could regain his balance.

 

“Finish this!” Faulcon roared, fully aware that he was being toyed with.

 

“As you wish,” Athos stated agreeably. With a speed born of both natural talent and years of practice, Athos feinted left and then pulled his strike, bringing the pommel of his sword across the man’s face instead, knocking him senseless. As he looked down at the bandit, he declared, “I _will_ see you hang for your crimes.”

 

He moved quickly to check on the other three men, confirming that none of them had survived. Unwilling to leave their bodies to the snow, he hefted each one in turn onto their horses before doing the same with Faulcon, binding the man’s arms and legs to the horse for good measure. When he’d finished, he tied the horses together, attaching another length of rope to the lead horse so that he could guide them back, single file. Pressing heels to his horse’s flanks he moved them back towards the Comte’s chateau, anxious to know how his friends were faring.

* * *

Fontaine had finished his examination of the Gascon after the other Musketeer had left, checking his head, arms, back and legs for any further injury. He was pleased to find nothing more than some painful looking bruising to the man’s left shoulder, guessing that he’d fallen on it at some point. When he had finished, he bundled the young man firmly in several blankets, ensuring that the warm water skins rested against the cold skin. Soon after, he was rewarded when the boy began to shiver uncontrollably, a positive sign that meant he was beginning to regain some warmth. There was nothing more that could be done for either man, other than to continue to change the water skins out for warm ones once they’d cooled and to watch over both men as they slept.

 

Many hours passed and the physician finally reached a point where he was comfortable allowing the Gascon’s body to finish warming on its own. The shivers had stopped and, while the man’s face was still exceptionally cool and pale, it was obvious that he would recover from his winter ordeal. Succumbing to his own exhaustion, Fontaine settled into a chair and allowed his eyes to close, confident that he would awake with the slightest sounds from either patient. As he’d predicted, when Aramis began thrashing in his sleep, Fontaine came alert immediately, and he moved swiftly to the man’s side to reassure him. His presence had the opposite effect, however, when Aramis’ eyes focused on his unfamiliar face.

 

A hoarse yell was pulled from Aramis as he struggled to differentiate between the images from his nightmares and his foreign surroundings. Immediately, he began scrambling to get out of bed, fighting with the blankets that covered him as his natural coordination abandoned him in his panic. Uncertain of what to do but unwilling to allow the man out of bed again, Fontaine threw his body forward, attempting to pin the man to the bed. A mournful keening erupted from his patient as he continued to fight weakly to make his escape.

 

The sounds of struggle penetrated the Gascon’s foggy mind and he opened his eyes, searching for their source. Still suffering from the effects of his ordeal but numbed by the physician’s medicine, d’Artagnan rolled to his side, gasping as he put weight on his damaged ribs, and somehow managed to free his uninjured arm and torso from the blankets around him. Pushing himself to a seated position, the young man pulled desperately at the blankets at his legs, finally managing to stand and swaying dangerously as the sounds of his friend’s distress beckoned. Seeing a strange man pinning Aramis to the bed, d’Artagnan used what little energy he had to shove the man aside, falling to his knees next to the Musketeer to place a soothing hand on the man’s brow.

 

“Aramis,” he forced out, his voice weak and breathy with pain, “it’s alright, you’re safe.” d’Artagnan broke off to take another shallow breath. “Can you open your eyes for me?” The young man kept his hand on Aramis’ head, pulling his fingers through the man’s matted curls as he spoke. Looking around he noted his friends’ absence as well as the man he’d pushed sitting on the floor, making no motions to move towards him. “Come now Aramis, Porthos will be disappointed to see you still sleeping when he returns.”

 

For several seconds, d’Artagnan thought his words might be ignored, until he saw the man take a steadying breath before opening his eyes. The Gascon smiled weakly, doing his best to ignore the pain that was robbing him of his strength. While Aramis might have been awake, the young man was still not certain that his friend was aware and he sat quietly waiting for the other man to speak. When he didn’t, d’Artagnan tried instead, “Hello, my friend, how are you feeling?” He moved his hand to grasp Aramis’, noting how it trembled and willing it to still as he squeezed it around his friend’s.

 

In his peripheral vision, d’Artagnan could see the other man beginning to move and he pinned the man with a hard stare. “Who are you?” he demanded.

 

“Fontaine, I am the physician who’s been caring for you and your friend,” the man stuttered hurriedly. Pushing himself to his feet, he took a step forward hands held out placatingly, indicating to Aramis, “He had a nightmare. I was concerned that he would flee from his bed again and worsen his injuries.”

 

Fontaine moved another step closer when d’Artagnan stopped him, “No. You had him pinned to the bed. Can you imagine what that feels like for a soldier, especially one who’s already confused and in pain?”

 

The physician considered the young man’s words, shaking his head remorsefully, “I am sorry, I meant no harm. I merely wanted to make sure he stayed safe.”

 

d’Artagnan’s glare softened, “I believe you but I think it would still be best if you let me take care him. He needs a familiar face.”

 

Fontaine nodded and indicated the door, “I will go to the kitchen and see if I can get some broth for you and your friend.”

 

As the man exited, d’Artagnan released a pained sigh, turning back to Aramis and dropping his head to the mattress for a moment while he gathered his strength. When he felt ready, he pulled himself off the floor and onto the bed to sit next to his friend, breathing heavily from the exertion. Aramis still watched him cautiously without recognition in his eyes, but seemed calm enough despite that fact that he didn’t seem to know where he was or with whom.

 

“Aramis, do you remember what happened?” d’Artagnan probed. He received a slight shake of the head in reply. “We were searching for some escaped prisoners,” he gritted out painfully, pausing to hunch over himself as he struggled with a wave of pain. “We were both thrown from our horses and ended up spending a night outside after we got caught in the storm.” Again, the young man needed to pause to pant shallowly.

 

“I remember the snow,” Aramis whispered and d’Artagnan nodded. “I thought I could hear their screams…and the blood…I couldn’t keep the ravens away from picking at their bodies…”

 

“No, Aramis,” d’Artagnan cried, “it was not Savoy. You’re just confused because you hit your head.” Aramis looked at the young man’s pleading face, seeing nothing but conviction and concern in his eyes.

 

“Not Savoy?” Aramis said tentatively.

 

“Not Savoy,” the young man assured him, squeezing his hand again.

 

Aramis seemed to be coming back to himself and noticed for the first time that the Gascon was holding his hand; frowning, he lifted their hands to look at them. “You’re hands are like ice,” he stated, questioningly.

 

The young man gave an aborted shrug with one shoulder, “I think I spent some time outside again.” He looked around at the vacant room, wondering once more where their friends were, “Not really sure how I ended up here.”

 

"And you're trembling," Aramis’ concern rose.

 

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

 

Aramis squinted at his friend, still having difficulty focusing, and managed to make out the paleness of the young man’s features as well as the dark bruising underneath both eyes. “You’re not fine,” he declared. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

Clearly the man’s second head would had left gaps in his memory and d’Artagnan considered how much to share. “Hurt my arm,” Aramis continued to squint at him, seemingly unconvinced, so he added “and my side. I’ll be alright,” he said, dismissively.

 

“You should be in bed,” Aramis stated.

 

Another shrug answered him as d’Artagnan pointed out, “There’s only one bed.”

 

Aramis’ retort was interrupted by the return of the other two Musketeers who strode determinedly into the room. Fontaine followed on their heels, bearing a tray with two cups of broth and some bread and cheese. Seeing the men awake, Porthos moved forward immediately, a large grin on his face at the sight.

 

“Aramis,” the large man placed a hand on his friend’s ankle, “it’s good to see you awake. Really good.”

 

Aramis could see the worry in his friend’s eyes and did his best to dispel it, “You certainly know how to make a man feel welcome. I can’t recall the last time I was received so warmly by someone who was not of the fairer sex.”

 

Porthos dipped his head slightly at his friend’s teasing comment, gladdened that he was feeling well enough to attempt humour. “And how are you feeling, lad? The last time I saw you, you were half-frozen again.”

 

The Gascon was unable to hide his wince as he turned slightly to face the larger man, saying, “Fine, I’m just glad that you’re back and Aramis is awake.”

 

Porthos nodded then glanced at the two men hovering just inside the door. His look seemed to break them both from their reverie and Fontaine moved forward with the food he’d brought. Athos hesitated before turning on his heel to exit, throwing over his shoulder, “I shall go update the Comte.”

 

Porthos frowned but let him go as he looked at the food the physician had brought. Taking a closer look at his two friends, he noted the stiffness in d’Artagnan’s back as he sat on the edge of the bed, along with the sheen of sweat that covered his face and neck. Glancing at Aramis, his evaluation of the young man’s condition was confirmed as the marksman motioned with his eyes towards the Gascon.

 

“Lad, we need to get you settled so you can eat something. This bed’s easily big enough for two and I bet Aramis would enjoy the company.” Before he’d even finished speaking, Aramis was already shifting to make more room.

 

“No, it’s fine,” d’Artagnan interjected, but Porthos stopped him with a stern look.

 

“You were cold as ice when we found you and I know your arm and side ‘ave got to be hurtin’. Besides, Aramis has been confused because of his head wound and he’ll rest easier with someone next to him.”

 

The Gascon looked at Aramis who gave a dip of his head in confirmation. “Alright,” he huffed.

 

Porthos moved quickly to position several pillows so that d’Artagnan could sit up and then pulled the blanket back so he could lay down. Leaning down to capture the young man’s gaze he ordered, “Let me do all the work.”

 

Deftly, Porthos lifted the boy’s legs onto the bed and then helped him scoot back against the pillows. Next, he recovered the blankets from the floor and covered the Gascon with them, having felt the lingering coolness of his skin. As he finished, the young man shivered at the realization of how cold he’d felt earlier when sitting next to Aramis. For his part, Aramis moved over slightly until the two men’s shoulders were touching, allowing some of the heat from his body to warm the young man.

 

Fontaine stepped forward again, “Now, broth, it will help to warm you and you need to rebuild some strength.”

 

Aramis looked at the cup warily, unsure of whether his stomach would accept the bland offering. “Come on Aramis, you have to at least try,” Porthos urged fondly. Nodding, he accepted the cup and took a careful sip.

 

d’Artagnan was also given a cup and, to his consternation, found his hand still shaking. Without drawing any attention to the act, Porthos wrapped his hand around the young man’s and helped guide the cup to his lips, relating the tale of how he’d gone after Athos, only to encounter the man already on his way back with Faulcon.

 

Unfortunately neither man managed to finish the warm offering, stomachs still sensitive from their injuries and eyes drooping with fatigue. When Porthos noticed his friends’ states he nimbly removed the cups from their hands, readjusting pillows with Fontaine’s help so the men could lay back and sleep. They wandered away from the bed when they’d finished, Porthos looking inquiringly at the physician.

 

“Aramis seemed to have his wits about him and it’s a good sign that your young friend awoke from his ordeal. With some time and rest, they should both be fine.

 

Porthos nodded and thanked the man, allowing him to take his leave as the first rays of the sun entered the room. Scrubbing a hand across his face, the large man realized how tired he was and, while he’d prefer to wait for Athos to return, his body had different ideas. Settling on a chair next to the bed, he was snoring before the sun had fully risen.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan had not felt this alone since his father had died and he hugged his arm tighter around himself, trying to find some comfort in the blankets that surrounded him as he desperately tried to return to the quiet oblivion of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos or commented on the last chapter. Still a few more chapters to go before the boys can return to their normal lives - enjoy!

Several hours passed and while the chateau came to life, the Musketeers slept. It was well after mid-day when Porthos awoke to find Athos sitting at the table, an ever-present bottle of wine at his elbow. Removing his feet gently from the foot of the bed where he’d rested them, Porthos stood and stretched, wandering over to sit across from his friend.

 

“You’re up early,” he offered.

 

Athos quirked an eyebrow at him. “Hardly, it’s well past mid-day.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at the comment, “You know what I mean. Can’t have been more than four or five hours since we went to sleep.” Athos inclined his head in agreement. “You talk to the Comte?”

 

“He was not happy at being pulled from his bed at such an early hour but his disposition improved once I’d explained the capture of the prisoners and especially the return of what had been stolen from his vault. The Comte is in our debt and extends his hospitality for as long as necessary for our fellow Musketeers to recover.”

 

“That’s good news, I suppose,” Porthos murmured. “I sent a message to Treville with one of the Comte’s men, although I guess things ‘ave changed a bit since last night.”

 

“The man had not yet departed so I amended the note to reflect our current situation,” Athos assured.

 

“They been awake at all,” Porthos motioned toward the sleeping men.

 

Athos shook his head, “But I understand that they were awake earlier?”

 

“Yeah, Aramis seemed better and we managed to get some broth into ‘em.” Porthos paused, reflecting on the events of the previous night. “They re-broke the boy’s arm. Had to hold him down so Fontaine could reset the bones.”

 

Athos’ gaze darkened as he heard the anguish in his friend’s tone. Reaching across the table to put a hand on the man’s thigh, Athos asserted softly, “Then it was fortunate that you were here to lend your strength to the task so that it might be completed as painlessly as possible.”

 

Porthos offered a nod of gratitude at his friend’s understanding of how difficult it had been to hear the young man’s scream and the two men fell silent.

 

Athos sat back in his chair, taking another drink of wine. The news Porthos had shared was not surprising but it only added to his anger at the young man’s actions. When the boy had willingly left with the bandits, Athos had wanted to shout at him for his stupidity and likely would have, had it not been for the gag. While he and Porthos had sat, waiting to be discovered and released, he’d considered the dressing down he would give the Gascon when they recovered him.

 

Finding the boy senseless and unmoving in the snow had nearly destroyed him, believing for many long seconds that they’d arrived too late, before being overcome with relief that the boy still lived; but his relief had again been short-lived, being replaced with feelings of anger, frustration and contempt at the young man’s actions. In his calmer moments, Athos recognized that these feelings were misplaced and should never be voiced, but now he itched for the boy to wake so that he might expend his fury at the young man.

 

During the morning hours, as his three companions slept, Athos had moved from one disturbing dream to the next, startling awake each time, covered in sweat and panting for breath that seemed denied to him due to the realism of the images conjured by his mind. In one, d’Artagnan had been marched outside and shot in front of the chateau’s gates; in another, the body they’d found in the snow had been lifeless, a gaping hole in his chest where he’d been driven through by a blade. Each seemed more horrific than the last and Athos finally abandoned his attempts at sleep for the solace of the bottle.

 

Now, his nerves were raw and frayed, worn away from a combination of too much worry and a lack of proper rest. He yearned to run away so he could regain his composure but his sense of duty would not allow him to leave his friends in such a vulnerable state. So he drank, fortifying himself with swallow after swallow of thick red wine, hoping that each subsequent glass might dull the edges of the emotions that were overwhelming him.

 

Porthos moved to stand up, breaking Athos from his contemplative state. “Guess I should find us something to eat, especially if you plan to keep drinkin’,” he nodded meaningfully at the empty bottles beside the table. Athos said nothing and Porthos left with a quiet huff of frustration.

 

The silence was soon broken by a moan of pain from the bed and Athos crossed the room to see which of the men had uttered the sound. d’Artagnan had shifted to place a supportive hand on his broken limb and his face was screwed up in obvious pain. Not wanting to startle the man, Athos spoke quietly, “Good morning.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes opened and he replied gruffly, “Morning.”

 

“Are you in pain? The physician left medicine…” Athos trailed off.

 

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan responded. Athos nodded and sat down beside the bed, allowing the silence to stretch for several minutes until the Gascon spoke. “I heard that you went after the bandits.” Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement. “They’re all dead except Faulcon?”

 

“Yes,” Athos replied flatly.

 

“Porthos said you spared him so he would hang?”

 

“Yes,” Athos said again.

 

“Why?” d’Artagnan asked, curious.

 

“For their crimes, of course,” Athos stated as if it should have been obvious. At the young man’s look of disbelief, he added, “For what they did to you and Aramis.” Athos straightened in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him and hardening his tone. “It was foolish of you to go with them.”

 

d’Artagnan looked up at the sudden coldness. “I had to, they would have killed you otherwise,” the Gascon retorted.

 

“No, you allowed yourself to be ruled by your emotions and placed yourself into a dangerous situation as a result,” Athos stated firmly.

 

“How can you say that? You and Porthos were tied, Aramis had yet to wake. What would you have me do?” he reminded incredulously. “Besides, it was you plan that got us into this mess in the first place.” As soon as the words left the young man’s mouth, he regretted them and wished to take them back. “Athos, I didn’t mean…”

 

“But of course you meant it. You’ve had concerns about my leadership this entire mission. Perhaps we should recommend that Treville place you in command upon our return?” Athos sneered, rising. “Clearly I’ve been remiss in understanding the depth of knowledge that springs from your Gascon upbringing. Did you father school you in strategy or did you gain this experience elsewhere, perhaps from your lengthy time as a Musketeer?” Athos was pacing now, his face a mask of controlled rage as he spat the hateful words at his protégé. “Clearly we’ve been negligent in our training, allowing you to forget the need for command and a soldier’s duty to obey orders – a mistake that I promise we’ll rectify as soon as we’ve returned to the garrison.” Hands clenched into fists, Athos strode out of the room past an astounded Porthos who had returned with food.

 

Placing the tray on the table, he hurried over to the bed where he found a teary-eyed d’Artagnan, still clasping his injured arm, but more now for comfort, it seemed. “What happened?” Porthos asked quietly.

 

“Nothing happened. I made a mistake and Athos was good enough to point it out to me. It won’t happen again.” At that, the Gascon closed his eyes and fell silent. Porthos noticed Aramis awake and gave the man a questioning look, but Aramis gave a quick shake of his head indicating the need to talk later. Extending an arm to his friend, Aramis indicated his desire to get out of bed so Porthos moved around the other side to help him up and over to the table.

 

Once they were both seated, Porthos laid out the food he’d brought, pushing some towards Aramis to encourage him to eat. Aramis took it grudgingly, taking a nibble, “Is this the tension I sensed earlier?” he asked.

 

Porthos nodded glumly, “Been goin’ on for the better part of a week. I’ve tried to get Athos to talk with the boy but he’s stubborn.”

 

“Has this anything to do with Thomas,” Aramis probed.

 

“How’d you know?” Porthos queried, surprised.

 

“Athos mentioned the boy’s birthday was sometime in February,” he shrugged, “it makes sense that our young Gascon’s presence might make this time of year difficult.”

 

“If this keeps up, we’ll have to lock the two in a room together till they sort things out,” Porthos declared.

 

Aramis reached over and placed a hand on his friend’s arm, “If only it were that easy, my friend, if only.”

* * *

d'Artagnan lay quietly in bed. He knew that his friends were probably talking about him and Athos but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The pain of his injuries had woken him and he’d stayed still and silent for as long as he’d been able, frustrated with himself when a groan had managed to escape. When Athos came to check on him, his initial feelings had been of relief; relief that his friend was alright and still cared enough to see how he was doing.

 

As an awkward silence descended on them, the Gascon began to wonder if their ability to sit comfortably in each other’s company had been lost and he’d been stunned by Athos’ fury at the previous night’s events. He’d known that leaving with the bandits was risky, but he could not willingly sit by and do nothing while his brothers were in harm’s way. Besides, he had every confidence that his friends would rescue him and was only buying them time to be able to do so. His lack of warm clothing had been an unfortunate inconvenience but, clearly, it had not affected the outcome adversely. They had managed to find him and bring him back to the chateau, Athos had successfully defeated the bandits and brought their leader back to stand trial, and no one else had been hurt. Why didn’t Athos understand that this equalled success?

 

Instead, Athos had railed at him with a fury that the young man had never seen directed at anyone but their enemies. He’d always known that Athos possessed a temper and had seen it unleashed against Milady, but even then, he’d tempered his rage with compassion and judgement, never allowing his emotions to overcome his good sense. Today had been different; Athos had been different. This was not the man that d’Artagnan had grown to admire and love; this man seemed to be spiteful and intentionally hurtful, wielding his words as efficiently as his sword.

 

d’Artagnan wondered if this change was his fault; perhaps Athos’ patience with him was finally at an end. They’d all known that he wasn’t a professional soldier like the rest of them, but he’d been welcomed and even accepted by the three as they tutored him in their varying areas of expertise. The three men had even looked past his youthfulness, which often led to inappropriate comments or brash actions. Perhaps Athos had finally had enough of his devotion, having indulged the young man’s need for a father figure and best friend when his family was lost, but d’Artagnan, in his stupidity, had not realized when he’d overstayed his welcome. He’d done his best to stop challenging Athos and had resolved to follow his orders regardless, but he’d failed in his commitment shortly after making the promise to himself. Looking at the previous day’s events, it seemed he’d failed the man often, culminating with his decision to leave with the bandits, forcing Porthos and Athos to separate and placing the older man in the dangerous position of having to pursue the men on his own.

 

The Gascon felt incredibly weary as he considered the situation he now found himself in. Athos had made his feelings clear and couldn’t even bear to be in the same room with him. Aramis had left the bed as soon as he’d been able and now the two men were talking without him, probably discussing his poor behaviour. d’Artagnan had not felt this alone since his father had died and he hugged his arm tighter around himself, trying to find some comfort in the blankets that surrounded him as he desperately tried to return to the quiet oblivion of sleep.

* * *

Porthos noted the fine lines of pain around his friend’s eyes and how he’d begun to lean heavily on the table in front of him, seemingly drooping further with every second he remained upright. “Come on then,” the swarthy man said with a fond smile, “let’s get you back to bed.”

 

Aramis looked up, startled from his thoughts, “Hmm?”

 

“You’ll fall over soon if we don’t get you laying down. You may think you’re better but your body’s been through a lot these past few days.” Porthos rose and placed a hand under Aramis’ elbow, guiding him slowly to a standing position and holding him until the floor steadied for the other man.

 

Aramis gave his friend an affectionate grin, “You really are the most terrible worrier.”

 

Porthos scoffed, an amused glint in his eyes, “Not worried, just eager to get back to Paris. I’m sure the Red Guards have missed my smiling presence at the card tables.”

 

“Pfft,” Aramis said as he stumbled over his feet, leaning more heavily on his friend’s solid shoulder beside him.

 

Porthos lowered him gently to sit on the bed, arranging the pillows so Aramis could sit partially upright and then helped him lay back, earning a sigh of contentment at being somewhat horizontal again. Next, he moved to wet a cloth in cool water, wringing out the excess and placing it across Aramis’ brow and eyes. He could see the lines on his friend’s face soften and heard a whispered, “Thank you” as the pain slowly eased.

 

Porthos patted his shoulder, taking a look at the Gascon lying on the other side of the bed. The boy’s eyes were closed, but if Porthos had to guess, the young man was awake and having difficulty dealing with the pain of his injuries. He knew that Athos would have offered him something for it, which the boy had no doubt declined; there was little they could do for him unless he changed his mind and the person with the best chance of accomplishing that was currently at odds with their young Gascon. Trusting that the two men could be left alone for a bit, Porthos left the room in search of their wayward leader, resigned to the fact that he’d have to be the one to try and talk some sense into the man.

 

Aramis lay quietly for several minutes, relishing the feeling of the pain in his head slowly receding until he felt confident that he could speak without being ill. As he’d lain there, he’d listened to the sound of d’Artagnan’s breathing next to him, recognizing the frequent hitches as indicators of the pain the boy was straining to contain. He wondered at the young man’s stubbornness, which would not allow the relative comfort that the physician’s medicine could provide, choosing instead to suffer silently. It was possible, he thought, that the boy’s actions stemmed more from emotional pain than physical, berating himself at his part in the troubles that now plagued the relationship between himself and Athos. Whatever the reason, Aramis could not allow the young man to continue suffering when relief was possible and necessary to speed his recovery.

 

Reaching a hand up, Aramis removed the now warm cloth from his face and turned himself carefully onto his side so that he could face the young Gascon. “d’Artagnan,” he spoke, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, “I know you’re awake.” He waited for several seconds before the young man acknowledged his words by opening his eyes. Aramis gave him a small smile in return, pleased to see that the boy hadn’t decided to simply ignore him.

 

“You are in pain,” Aramis stated, words full of compassion and worry.

 

The Gascon knew the difficulties that his friend had been facing with his dual head wounds and didn’t wish to add to them by sharing his own troubles, so he merely lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, saying “It’s not that bad.”

 

The reaction he received was somewhat unexpected as Aramis snorted, grinning, “You forget, we’ve all suffered broken bones in the past and know the pain you bear.” Softening his look somewhat, Aramis prompted the boy again, “Would you like to try a more honest answer?”

 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help rolling his eyes at his friend’s persistence, but relented, “It’s pretty uncomfortable.” Aramis looked at him expectantly, waiting for more. “Alright, it’s more than uncomfortable. I can’t really find a position that doesn’t cause some sort of pain and my arm aches, pulsing in pain with the beat of my heart. Happy?”

 

“Not that you’re in pain, no, but gladdened that you saw fit to tell me the truth.” Aramis’ face turned more serious as he asked, “Why did you decline Athos’ offer of a pain reliever?”

 

The young man bit his lip, looking down, unsure of how he should respond. “I wanted to keep a clear head,” he finally answered.

 

“Mmm,” Aramis eyed him thoughtfully, noting the deep circles under the boy’s eyes and the pallor of his face. “Would this have anything to do with your conversation with Athos?”

 

d'Artagnan's gaze met his skittishly and the older man was certain that, had he been able, the young man would have fled rather than have this conversation. For his part, the Gascon was unsure about how he should respond, knowing the deep friendship that existed between Athos and Aramis and not wanting to say anything disparaging against his mentor.

 

“I placed him in a difficult position, forcing him to choose between my safety and the capture of the bandits. Athos was well within his rights to take me to task for my actions,” d’Artagnan explained. Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he added quietly, “I just wish I didn’t keep disappointing him as I have been these past weeks.”

 

Aramis observed the young man as he spoke, concerned that the boy might really believe that the blame for everything lay solely at his feet. “Is that what you truly think?” he asked softly. d’Artagnan met the other man’s gaze and Aramis could see the dismay and regret reflected there, proving that the young man did indeed believe his own words.

 

Laying back against his own pillows again, Aramis changed tact, “Have I ever told you about my time after Savoy?”

 

“What?” the Gascon was taken aback by the sudden change in direction their conversation had taken.

 

“The physical effects of what I’d suffered actually ended up being the least concerning. There was no infection, I had been found early enough that there were no long-term effects from the cold or lack of food and water – it was quite remarkable really. The hardest part was the weeks that followed.” Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan to confirm he held the boy’s attention. “I saw the shadows of Savoy everywhere and experienced terrible nightmares whenever I closed my eyes, until I refused to do so and forced myself to remain awake. Food tasted like sawdust and when I did manage more than a few bites, my stomach rebelled and I found myself gagging until tears ran from my eyes.”

 

d’Artagnan had turned partly in the bed now so that he could reach his good hand across his body and place it on Aramis’ arm. He had no idea why his friend would choose to share the horrors of his past, especially now, but he was determined to listen and provide what support he could. Aramis reached up to cover the Gascon’s hand with his own as he continued. “I would not have survived if it weren’t for Porthos and Athos. They dealt with my foul moods, allowing me to rage at them and cry on them in equal measure. Not once did they treat me with pity, but rather with dignity and respect, even when I felt I didn’t deserve it. I am confident that it is only because of them that I am here with you today.”

 

“Aramis, I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine what it must have been like,” d’Artagnan comforted.

 

Aramis smiled sadly at him, “For the longest time I could not understand why they bothered. We were not yet close and had barely served together a few months; it would have been nothing for them to walk away and return to their own lives. Can you guess why they didn’t?”

 

The Gascon swallowed, unsure of how to reply. “I’d wager it’s because they’re kind and honorable men who wouldn’t turn their backs on their brother,” he ventured.

 

“Mmm, they are kind and honorable, aren’t they,” Aramis mused with a quirk of his lips. “But they are still men, regardless, as we all are, and men are fallible, are they not?”

 

“Yes, I suppose,” d’Artagnan allowed.

 

“So it’s possible that in all that has transpired, Athos has behaved poorly, perhaps for reasons of which we remain unaware,” Aramis observed.

 

The Gascon caught onto Aramis’ meaning that his mentor might be struggling with something right away and asked, “Is he? I mean, is there something that’s troubling him right now?”

 

Porthos had rejoined them in time to hear the last part of the discussion between the two men and he interjected now as he sidled up to the bed, “There’s something but I don’t think he’s quite ready to talk about it yet.”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted to the large man, “So what do we do?”

 

It was Aramis who answered, squeezing the young man’s hand, “We do not allow him to push us away just as he would not be pushed away after Savoy.”

 

The young man nodded, his mind reeling from all that he’d heard and the possibility that things might still be resolved between himself and Athos.

 

“Now, your desire to be clear-headed is admirable, but,” Aramis trailed off as he watched Porthos prepare a pain draught.

 

“But, you’ll need your wits about you, which you won’t have if you’re in pain,” Porthos offered the cup to the young man.

 

“And, if you’re exhausted because the pain won’t allow you to rest properly,” Aramis finished.     

 

d’Artagnan nodded but made no move to take the cup. “Maybe I should eat something first?” he suggested.

 

Porthos looking at him sternly, leaving no quarter for a dishonest answer, “Can you keep anything down?”

 

“I believe so,” he started, seeing the hesitant looks on his friends’ faces, “I’d really like to try. Once I drink that, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay awake long enough to have anything.”

 

At Aramis’ nod, Porthos withdrew the cup and offered some bread instead.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I cannot help myself, you know,” Athos spoke quietly. “It would be best if we were apart…especially tomorrow.” Athos’ voice seemed to choke at his last words and he brought the wine glass to his lips quickly, draining half its contents in a large gulp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the wonderful comments you've shared. I'm thrilled by the great response to this story and have been making minor adjustments along the way, based on some of the feedback received - you truly have made the final version posted here better with your thoughts. Hope you enjoy the next chapter!

After settling Aramis in bed, Porthos had followed on Athos’ heels, managing to track him down in an empty sitting room with a helpful head nod from one of the servants dusting in the foyer. Athos had positioned himself on a settee that overlooked the heavy covering of snow outside, and while he hadn’t been alone very long, it had apparently been enough time for the man to secure a new bottle. He tipped it to his mouth now as Porthos approached, eyebrow raised at the fact that Athos had chosen to forgo using a glass, leaving it to sit empty on the table beside him.

 

“Is that your third or fourth?” Porthos asked as he pulled a chair to sit across from his friend.

 

“It hardly seems fair to count this as my fourth. I was interrupted from my third bottle upstairs after only a few swallows,” Athos replied dryly.

 

“Does it help?” Porthos questioned softly.

 

Athos let the hand holding the wine drop to his lap, glancing at the worry etched in his friend’s face. “Not lately, no. It seems my demons have become impervious to my usual method of coping.”

 

Porthos reached carefully across the space the separated the two and tugged on the wine bottle, surprised when Athos’ fingers loosened, allowing him to remove it from his grasp. Porthos raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow before lowering it to his own lap. “Perhaps these demons are different,” he suggested. Athos stared at his empty hands, a slight nod the only indication that he’d heard his friend’s words. “Why did d’Artagnan’s actions upset you so?” Porthos continued.

 

Athos breathed deeply, steeling himself to try to explain to one of his best friends the feelings that the Gascon had been evoking. “For many years, I had thought I would be an only child. My mother carried a great sorrow when she was unable to bear a second heir and I did not realize until I was older that it was unusual to not have any brothers or sisters. When Thomas was born, I am sure my parents thought it a miracle and, as such, my mother was especially devoted to his care.” Athos paused and Porthos offered him the wine, the older man taking only a few sips this time before handing the bottle back. “I was old enough by then that I wasn’t bothered by her lack of attention, and was kept busy learning everything I needed to know to inherit my father’s title one day. Even though we were separated by many years, Thomas followed me around as soon as he could walk, frustrating my mother and his nursemaid to no end.” A slight smile graced his face at the memory. “He was forever trying to keep up with me and looked at me as if I held all the world’s secrets within my hands.” Athos swallowed thickly, his voice lowering, “It is not unlike the way d’Artagnan looks at me sometimes.”

 

Porthos leaned forward to lay a hand on the man’s thigh, offering a quiet assurance as Athos struggled to continue. “Being Thomas’ older brother was the most fulfilling role I’ve ever had the privilege to enjoy and he was killed because of his unfailing belief me; because he tried to protect me. Can you not see those qualities in our young Gascon?” Athos raised his head, his face full of despair, eyes blinking rapidly in an effort to dispel the moisture that threatened to drop.

 

Porthos waited several moments before speaking and then only when he held the man’s gaze, “Athos, d’Artagnan is not Thomas. He has attached himself to you but not because you’re perfect. He’s seen you at your best _and_ at your worst, and he accepts both parts of you willingly. Don’t you see – he protects you because you do the same for him. No matter what you might think of the boy, he’s not a follower; but he will allow himself to be led by someone who’s worthy of being followed – just like the rest of us.”

 

Athos dropped his head and moved a hand to cover Porthos’ hand on his thigh as he absorbed the enormity of his brother’s words. He desperately wanted to believe that he was worthy of such devotion, especially from men as fine as those he called _brother_ , but his mind was still clouded by too little sleep, too much wine and the looming of Thomas’ birthday, now only a day away. Finally, Athos managed a nod and lifted his head, forcing his voice to remain steady, “I’m fine, thank you. You should probably return to check on Aramis and the boy.”

 

Porthos noticed Athos’ intentional avoidance of d’Artagnan’s name but decided not to press the matter. He stood, still holding the bottle of wine, and offered it to Athos who shook his head – more wine right now would not help the situation any. Porthos was glad that his friend had decided to decline any additional liquid courage and turned on his heel to leave Athos in peace. The conversation that they’d just had was a good start, but he had little doubt that this would not be the last time the issue reared its head before it was resolved. Athos had a propensity to be harder on himself than anyone else he’d ever met, which Porthos felt was completely unfair given that Athos was one of the finest men he’d ever known.

* * *

d’Artagnan had made a valiant effort to eat, but the trauma his body had endured simply made it too difficult to keep anything down. As Porthos held the boy’s shoulders and offered soothing words while the Gascon was ill, Aramis looked on in worry at the cycle that was beginning to appear. When drugged, the pain became tolerable and the boy could eat, but he’d fall asleep too quickly to do so; without any relief from the pain, his stomach was too upset to handle food and anything ingested didn’t stay down for long. In his mind, only two options remained: either they’d have to wait until the boy’s pain diminished on its own, taking the chance that his body wouldn’t weaken too seriously as a result, or they would need to find an alternative way of managing the pain that would allow the Gascon to stay awake long enough to take in the sustenance that his body badly needed to heal.

 

The young man had finished emptying his stomach and still leaned against Porthos, his head hanging down as he panted with the agony that had surely ignited in his broken bones. Porthos was now rubbing slow circles on the boy’s back, still murmuring quiet assurances into d’Artagnan’s ear. The large man could feel the trembling that quaked through the thin man’s frame, and he scowled again at the boy’s inability to keep anything down, recognizing as well as Aramis that the boy needed food for his bones to knit and to regain his strength.

 

Porthos looked up as Athos entered the room, pausing in the doorway to take in the scene in front of him. Even from across the room, the Gascon’s shaking was easy to spot and Athos winced at the stuttering breaths that heaved noisily from the boy’s mouth and chest. Shifting his gaze to Porthos, Athos tried to silently ask about the boy’s condition, but the larger man’s expression gave nothing away as he dipped his head again to speak with the d’Artagnan. Whatever Porthos had said got the barest of nods from the young man and Porthos changed his grip so he could lower his charge back against the pillows. In this new position, Athos could see that d’Artagnan’s eyes were screwed up tightly with pain, his bangs sticking to his sweat-slicked face. As Porthos drew the blankets up to cover the boy’s torso, Athos noted they boy’s good arm tightly clutched around himself in an effort to quiet the pulsing agony in his ribs and arm.

 

Porthos stood to wet a cloth so that he could wipe the young man’s face and, as he left d’Artagnan’s side, Athos found himself crossing the room to take the larger man’s place. He stared at the boy for several moments, the other two men watching him to see how he would react. Finding his voice, Athos spoke haltingly, “You are in pain, are you not?”

 

d’Artagnan managed to pry his eyes partway open to see Athos standing over him and drew a ragged breath to reply, “Seems that being sick with broken ribs,” he paused to inhale, “can be quite painful.”

 

At the young man’s words, Athos felt a familiar anger begin to overtake him again and he clenched his fists in an effort to keep his emotions in check. “You would not be suffering so if you had taken something for the pain earlier,” he pointed out.

 

Opening his eyes more fully, the Gascon held Athos’ gaze as he replied, “I was trying to eat something first.”

 

He paused again to regain his breath but Athos was already speaking, “Then you put us all at risk with your foolhardy decisions. How are we to return Faulcon to Paris if you do not endeavor to get well?”

 

Aramis started at the man’s words and Porthos was already moving back towards the bed, but d’Artagnan pinned him with a scowl, causing the large man to stop in his tracks. Returning his attention to Athos, the Gascon gritted out, “My intention is not to place anyone at risk, especially my brothers. Bring me the cup; I’ll drink whatever you ask.” The last part of his sentence was barely audible as he used the last of his air to push the words out, but he had been resolute that Athos would hear him out, rather than using his interrupted speech as another opportunity to rebuke him.

 

Athos turned to Porthos and ordered flatly, “You heard him, bring him the cup. Perhaps then we can finally make plans to be gone from this accursed place.”

 

Pointedly ignoring their lieutenant, Porthos strode forward with the wet cloth he’d been holding and used a shoulder to push the other man out of the way. The Gascon’s eyes were again closed but Porthos had no doubt that the boy was fully aware of what was going on around him and he spoke quietly as he leaned forward to mop the boy’s face so as not to startle him. When he’d finished, he moved even closer to whisper in the Gascon’s ear. Upon receiving an affirmative response to his question, he moved to collect the medicine from earlier and then helped the young man swallow its contents. Athos observed all of this from several steps away, having taken refuge by the window after Porthos’ refusal of his orders.

 

When d’Artagnan had finished consuming the drink, Porthos fussed with his blanket and caught Aramis’ concerned gaze from the other side of the bed. Standing and turning to address Athos, he was surprised to find the man striding from the room, his shoulders stiff and hands curled into tight fists. Exhaling dejectedly he turned to face Aramis instead, his friend’s face reflecting the despair that he himself was feeling. He walked around the bed and sat down next to Aramis, offering a quiet apology, “I’m sorry, Aramis. I thought I’d gotten through to him.”

 

Aramis placed a hand on his friend’s thigh, letting him know that no blame rested with him, “Porthos, we have both known Athos long enough to know that one conversation is not enough to pull him from his melancholy.” He flicked a sideways glance to where d’Artagnan now dozed, “Unfortunately, they’re both too much alike and neither one of them has the good sense to back down when they’re hurt by the other.” Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, Aramis stated, “We’ll just have to outwit them both until they come to their senses and remember how much they care for each other.” Porthos nodded, knowing that Aramis was doing his best to lighten his mood, but deep down he wondered if either of them had the ability to pull these two men from the downward spiral they seemed to be trapped within.

* * *

The day passed quietly, Athos staying away from the room where his friends had taken up residency. At Aramis’ urging, Porthos had gone in search of their leader late in the afternoon, just so he could assure himself that the man hadn’t come to any harm. While he couldn’t definitively say that Athos was alright, he was not in harm’s way. When Porthos had found him, he was reclined on the settee, his face covered by his hat, and was seemingly asleep. Porthos decided not to linger, knowing that his friend was in desperate need of rest, and was simply gladdened that there were no wine bottles in sight.

 

Back in the room they shared, d’Artagnan had slept fitfully, his mind still troubled by recent events despite the powerful draught he’d consumed. It created a tenuous situation where the young man was too drugged to be woken, and Aramis resigned himself to trying to comfort the boy when his restless movement pulled whimpers of pain from his throat. As such, he didn’t manage much rest and by the time that Porthos returned with news of their wayward friend, his eyes were pinched with pain and his head throbbed mercilessly.

 

Recognizing the signs of his friend’s distress, Porthos immediately closed the drapes to block out the last rays of the sun and helped Aramis lay down comfortably on the bed. Taking a seat next to him, he slipped a hand behind Aramis’ head and began to slowly squeeze the tense muscles at the base of his neck until he felt his friend’s head relax further into the pillows that supported him. Sensing that Aramis was close to sleep, he moved quietly to collect a wet cloth, which he placed over Aramis’ forehead and eyes, and then sat for several minutes, just watching, to confirm that his friend was in fact asleep. Sitting back in his chair, Porthos allowed a soft sigh to escape, rubbing his eyes wearily at the difficult day they’d endured. In his heart he knew that Athos was only lashing out at the boy because of his own pain, but the discord it wrought placed stress on them all; stress that, Porthos reminded himself, was completely unwelcome given all of the other troubles that had plagued them so far during this mission.

   

The grumbling of his stomach startled him from his thoughts and he realized belatedly that they had missed their mid-day meal, having grazed on the remnants of breakfast throughout the day since Aramis’ appetite was still off and he needed to be reminded frequently to eat. Pushing himself up, he resigned himself to use food as an excuse to speak with Athos, as it was just as likely that the other man had missed lunch too. Finding one of the staff outside their room, he asked for supper to be brought to the sitting room, along with a good bottle of wine and two glasses. As he’d surmised, Athos was where he’d left him, although the slight tensing of his body at Porthos’ approaching footsteps gave away the fact that he was awake.

 

Porthos pulled a small table in front of the settee, positioning a chair across from it and sat in silence, waiting either for the other man to speak or for their food to arrive. Athos was a patient man and seemed disinclined to speak, not moving from his position and seemingly relaxing again once he’d identified his visitor. A servant arrived with a tray and Porthos directed the man to arrange the food on the table, dismissing him with a hand once the cork had been pulled from the bottle of wine. Apparently the scent of wine was what Athos had been waiting for and he rose gracefully and swung his legs around so he was sitting on the settee, facing the food. He reached a hand for the bottle of wine but Porthos beat him to it, and wordlessly poured two glasses before placing the bottle on the floor next to his chair. He pinned Athos with a hard stare that dared the man to argue, but Athos merely took one of the glasses and sipped appreciatively, “The Comte has excellent taste in wine.”

 

Porthos didn’t reply, instead pushing a plate towards his friend as he took the other for himself and began to load it with a selection of meat and cheese. He took a bite and slowly chewed as he watched Athos, who had made no move to fill his own plate. With a put-upon sigh, Athos helped himself to a couple of items and began to eat as well, the two men continuing to sit in complete silence as they ate.

For Athos, the quiet was welcome but he knew that it would not last, fully anticipating this to be the quiet before the storm that would see Porthos berating him for his earlier words against d’Artagnan. What Porthos didn’t understand was that Athos agreed with him and if he could have managed it, he would have removed himself from the young man’s presence days before in order to prevent causing him any more pain. But circumstances had not afforded him the luxury of his own self-pity and he found himself duty bound to stay close to his friends, while the tenuous grip he had on his emotions continued to loosen and fray, leaving Athos fearful that he would soon snap so spectacularly that they would not be able to recover from the damage that would ensue.   

 

Athos washed his meal down with the last of the wine in his glass, somewhat surprised when Porthos refilled it for him, before leaning back and crossing his arms on his chest, waiting for Athos to speak. “You really are very intimidating when you want to be,” Athos said, taking a sip of the wine. “I can see why you’re so effective at interrogating those who make the mistake of crossing us.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at the comment, huffing in mildly amused annoyance. Athos quirked his lips slightly at the sound, his heart lightening somewhat with the knowledge that his friend had not forsaken him, despite his earlier actions. “Perhaps it would be best if I set out for Paris tomorrow with Faulcon. That would allow the rest of you to stay here for several more days until everyone is fit enough to ride,” Athos suggested.

 

This time Porthos grunted, the look on his face decidedly unhappy at Athos’ words. “I cannot help myself, you know,” Athos spoke quietly. “It would be best if we were apart…especially tomorrow.” Athos’ voice seemed to choke at his last words and he brought the wine glass to his lips quickly, draining half its contents in a large gulp.

 

Porthos softened his expression as he observed the obvious signs of his friend’s suffering. “It’s not going to help anyone if we separate again, but getting back to Paris is a good idea. I’ll speak to Aramis when he’s awake to see what he thinks about heading back tomorrow.”

 

Athos’ expression was a mix of hope and worry, knowing that their return to Paris would provide him with the escape he so desperately sought but would also test their injured friends’ limits during the difficult journey back. The cold temperatures made winter travel challenging under the best of circumstances, and the snow-covered roads would make the ride jerky and uncomfortable for even healthy men. Athos sighed deeply, wondering how he could deny the kindness that Porthos was extending, recognizing that to accept would be incredibly selfish, yet knowing that his friends would honor the offer regardless of the impact to themselves. “I am… _humbled_ by the offer, Porthos, but I cannot in good conscience ask Aramis and d’Artagnan to leave the comfort of their beds just yet.”

 

Porthos allowed a small grin, recognizing what the decision was costing his friend, and yet grateful that he was not so far gone that he would subject the two men to such a trying trip before they were well enough to manage it. Athos returned the man’s smile with a partial one of his own, pleased with Porthos’ reaction and that he had not further disappointed his friend…at least not _this_ friend. “Aramis?” he asked, hesitantly.

 

Porthos shrugged, “You know ‘im. He knows all about feelings and such and seems to think this has something to do with Thomas’ birthday.” At Athos’ sharp look, Porthos shook his head. “No, I haven’t said a word – didn’t have to. d’Artagnan on the other hand is worried that he keeps disappointing you as well as just bein’ plain worried about how you’ve been acting. He knows you’re troubled by somethin’ and thinks he’s the cause.”

 

“I cannot speak with him,” Athos’ shoulders slumped in defeat, “not yet. Tomorrow is the 24th.”

 

Porthos nodded in understanding and made to rise, “I’m gonna head back and try to get some food into them.” Pausing, he offered, “Probably be an early night for all of us tonight.”

 

Athos tilted his head in comprehension, Porthos smiling in return before leaving him. Athos could not risk another confrontation with the Gascon, especially not on the eve of Thomas’ birthday, but he could watch over his friends while they slept. Feeling somewhat more optimistic, Athos leaned back in the settee, savouring the last of the wine as he waited for night to fall so he could return to be with his brothers.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gaze turned to the window and fell on the snow that shimmered under the moonlight, as a single tear fell from his eyes. It was midnight and officially the 24th –Thomas’ birthday - and the start of an especially long and trying twenty-four hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took time to comment on the last chapter. Some more angst ahead as well as a decision - hope you enjoy!

Porthos detoured to arrange for more food to be brought to his friends, including a request for broth for d’Artagnan, hopeful that the lighter meal would not upset his currently sensitive stomach. When he pushed the door open, he was pleased to see Aramis sitting up and helping the young man with a cup of water. Placing the tray he’d brought on the table, he gave both men a grin as he walked to the bed. “How are you both feeling?”

 

Aramis answered for them as he continued to steady the cup that d’Artagnan drank from, “We’re much improved and wondering where our next meal was coming from.” His eyes drifted meaningfully to the tray Porthos had brought. Understanding dawned for the large man and he turned on his heel to grab the broth, sitting next to d’Artagnan until the boy had finished his water. He held the bowl up when Aramis pulled the water cup away and the young man eyed it cautiously, waiting to see how his stomach would react to the water he’d just drank. “Do you think you can manage some?” Seeing the hopeful looks on his friends’ faces, d’Artagnan nodded and moved to take the bowl from Porthos.

 

The larger man scoffed at him, his grin widening as he asked, “And just how do you plan to manage this with one arm strapped to your chest?” The Gascon looked from the bowl and spoon to his arm and then back again, realizing his predicament but horrified at the thought of not being able to feed himself.

 

“Porthos,” Aramis pretended to scold, “just take the spoon out so the boy can drink it instead.” The grin that graced the young man’s face was exactly what the two men had hoped for, and Porthos ducked his head to hide his satisfaction at having successfully dispatched the boy’s earlier foul mood. Porthos removed the spoon as he’d been ordered and allowed the young man to guide the bowl to his lips, steadying it when he noticed the slight shaking of the Gascon’s hand. No doubt the boy was in a great deal of pain, and was once again attempting to eat something before allowing himself the physician’s medicine which would allow him to sleep through the night.

 

“Where have you been?” d’Artagnan asked, curious about his friend’s absence. Porthos frowned slightly at the breathless quality of the boy’s voice and threw a concerned look to the side where Aramis still sat. Aramis inclined his head minutely, letting Porthos know that he was aware of the young man’s weakened state, but that they would discuss it later.

 

Porthos guided the bowl back to d’Artagnan’s lips, encouraging him to have another sip as he explained, “Athos and I had dinner in the sitting room.”

 

At this it was Aramis’ turn to raise an eyebrow and Porthos gave a short shake of his head, asking the man not to pursue the conversation further. Picking up on his friend’s cue, Aramis stated, “Dinner sounds like a lovely idea and I believe it’s time for mine.” He turned his body sideways on the bed, allowing his feet to drop to the floor, and sat motionless for several moments while his dizziness abated.

 

“Aramis, wait for me. I’ll help you up when I’m done with d’Artagnan,” Porthos scolded.

Aramis and d’Artagnan threw him a matching set of disgusted looks, both speaking at the same time.

 

“I don’t need to your help. It’s only a few feet to the table.”

 

“Go help him now. It’s just a bowl of broth and I can manage on my own.”

 

Porthos looked from one man to the other, before asking, exasperated, “Really? Did the two of you plan this?”

 

“No,” Aramis smirked, “but you have to admit the effect was quite spectacular.” With that, he pushed himself upright, stabilizing himself for a moment with a hand on the wall, and then moved to the table, sending a self-satisfied grin in Porthos’ direction. Porthos merely shook his head, feeling just a bit lighter at the fact that his friend was feeling well enough to move under his own power and to tease him, to boot.

 

Their antics had softened d’Artagnan’s features as well, helping him forget for a short while the pain that his body had been battling. Porthos took full advantage and lifted the bowl to the young man’s mouth, the boy opening obediently to drink. Aramis positioned his chair so he was facing the bed and watched the Gascon for any signs of nausea, fervently hoping that the boy would be able to keep down his watery meal, which offered only the barest nutrients that his body needed. Moving past his own discomfort, which came in the form of a persistent headache that frequently made his vision blur and his belly lurch, he picked at a small portion of bread and stew.

 

“Well done, whelp,” Porthos commended as he drew the empty bowl away from d’Artagnan, using his other hand to gently muss the boy’s hair. The Gascon gave a small sound of protest, but it was clear he didn’t really mind as the action drew another smile from the boy. Porthos joined Aramis at the table, nodding approvingly at his friend’s efforts to eat, while d’Artagnan shifted his hand to the elbow of his injured arm, again attempting to brace it to alleviate its persistent throbbing.

 

Looking down at his lap, d’Artagnan’s smile slipped and he turned serious again. He’d noticed Athos’ absence in the room right away, surprised at how much it had hurt that the man wasn’t there. He’d felt relief as well, of course, but that was quickly overshadowed by an overwhelming fear that his mentor was deliberately avoiding him and that his attempts at reconciliation with the man would not only be unwelcome but rebutted. Lifting his head now to meet Porthos’ gaze, he asked, “How is Athos?”

 

Porthos had been expecting the question, but that didn’t mean he welcomed it and he was still conflicted about how much of what Athos had revealed he could in good conscience share with his brothers. Sighing, he realized that Athos’ story was still his own and he would need to be convinced to disclose it himself. “He’s downstairs right now.” The look on d’Artagnan’s face communicated his displeasure with Porthos’ answer so he the man searched for the right words as he continued. “He’s troubled but not yet ready to share his burden. I think he’ll feel better once we’re on the road home so he has less time to spend with his thoughts.”

 

Unwittingly, Porthos had offered d’Artagnan the means by which to try to make amends with his mentor and he jumped on the opportunity right away. “Then we should make haste to return to Paris as quickly as possible.”

 

“Wha?” Porthos’ face clouded with confusion at the direction their conversation had taken.

 

“Aramis seems better and if we go slowly, I’m confident I can manage the ride. We should make plans to depart in the morning. I imagine the Comte will be glad to be rid of us as well as his other unwelcome guest,” the Gascon said, referring to Faulcon.

 

Porthos looked to Aramis for help, but his friend was staying silent for now, clearly considering the soundness of the young man’s suggestion. “You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” Porthos asked incredulously.     

 

Aramis shrugged, “There’s not much else to be done for what ails us, and if we take things slowly, we should be able to manage the trip. One day more or less won’t make much difference, I’m afraid.”

 

Porthos raked a hand through his curls in frustration, still unwilling to believe how quickly things had turned. “The boy hasn’t even managed a proper meal yet and you think he can handle being on the back of a horse for hours on end?”

 

d’Artagnan clearly didn’t appreciate the insinuation that they were waiting on him before they could leave and he drew himself up as much as he was able while still in bed and countered, “I’ve ridden with broken ribs before. I can do this.”

 

Aramis placed a consoling hand on Porthos’ arm as the larger man shook his head in disbelief. “Bloody idiots, the lot of ya.”

 

“It would do Athos good if we were to leave this place, would it not?” he asked, softly. Unwilling to meet that man’s eyes, Porthos merely nodded. “Then it would be remiss on our part if we didn’t do everything in our power to afford him this small kindness,” Aramis finished.

 

Porthos could see d’Artagnan nodding in fervent agreement with Aramis’ words and he knew he was defeated. No matter what he or Athos said now, his two friends had decided and would not have their minds changed. “Fine,” he answered in defeat. “But if we’re gonna do this, you” he glared at the Gascon, “have got to eat more than just broth.” The young man was already nodding as Porthos continued, “ _and_ you have to keep it down. And you,” he switched his gaze to Aramis, “have got to be able to take more than a few steps before the floor starts titling on you. You’ll never stay in the saddle otherwise and I’m not gonna spend the entire trip back pickin’ you up off the ground.”

 

Aramis squeezed Porthos’ arm in agreement, offering him a small smile in gratitude at having accepted their decision to leave. Porthos stood, shaking his head again at his two crazy friends, loading up a plate of food and depositing it in d’Artagnan’s lap. “I want it all gone, understood?” The Gascon nodded agreeably.

 

Turning back to Aramis, “You too and then back to bed. If we’re to travel tomorrow, you’ll need a good night’s sleep tonight. I’ll go let Athos know our plans.”

 

Watching the large man’s back as he retreated, Aramis locked eyes with d’Artagnan. “This will be a very difficult journey.”

 

“I know,” the Gascon replied softly, “but I want to do this…for Athos.” Aramis understood and even shared the young man’s sentiment, but also wanted the boy to appreciate how truly challenging their coming days would be. “The cold makes broken bones ache without mercy and the pain will sap your strength. You’ll have to take the medicine the physician provided and be honest about needing breaks.” He saw the young man ready to protest his terms and held a hand up to forestall him. “We’ll adjust the amount so that it doesn’t make you sleepy; I don’t want to see you fall off your horse any more than Porthos does. Agreed?”

 

“Agreed.” The young man picked up a piece of cheese and seemed to examine it for several long moments before lifting his gaze back to Aramis. “Do you think this will help?” he asked plaintively.

 

Aramis smiled at the young man’s need for reassurance, again touched at the depth of caring that was demonstrated in his willingness to place his friends’ needs ahead of his own. “Yes, I do.”

 

“Good.” d’Artagnan popped the piece of cheese into his mouth, chewing slowly, and Aramis could tell that the food held no interest for the boy, but again, he was forcing himself to eat in order to satisfy Porthos’ terms for leaving. He followed the young man’s lead and did the same, his stomach unsettled now by the undertaking that awaited them, wondering if he’d done the right thing by speaking in support of the Gascon’s suggestion to leave.

* * *

Athos sipped at his wine, savouring its woody undertones rather than guzzling it down as he would normally. The temptation to do so still existed, but he wanted to be of use to his friends overnight and that meant that his typical consumption of evening wine would have to be avoided. After Porthos had left, Athos had returned to an examination of his actions during the past weeks, sadly admitting that his friends had every right to be upset with him and that he’d acted poorly. It was ironic, actually, that he was acting in exactly the way that he’d advised d’Artagnan against, and he’d continuously allowed his emotions to overrule his good sense.

 

He considered Porthos’ words and wondered how accurate they were, especially when it came to their youngest brother. He had to admit that d’Artagnan seemed to have an unsurpassed capacity for kindness and was loyal beyond question; of course, that didn’t mean that his judgement was sound and perhaps his loyalty to Athos was simply misplaced, a fact that was now becoming painfully clear to the boy. Athos gave his head a small shake, a frown on his face. If that line of thought were true then Porthos would be completely incorrect in his assessment and Athos had learned to trust Porthos’ quiet insights which had been honed by years of navigating the streets of the Court of Miracles.  

 

As he took another sip of wine, he realized that he was starting to feel quite tired and began to wonder if the night would hold any rest for him. With everything that had been happening, there had been little time for him to sleep, and those hours when he successfully closed his eyes, he’d been so plagued by bad dreams that he’d intentionally kept himself awake. It was possible that he might find some rest while watching over his brothers later that night, but he was afraid that that he might wake them when one of his nightmares struck; perhaps sleep was better avoided until he could remove himself again and find someplace to rest away from his friends.

 

He scrubbed a hand across his face, attempting to rub some of his tiredness away, and was surprised to see Porthos standing inside the doorway watching at him. At Athos’ inquiring look, Porthos walked over and fell heavily into the chair across from his friend. “I’ve been informed that we’re leaving for Paris tomorrow,” he said.

 

Athos raised an eyebrow, remembering their earlier conversation but having no memory of having made any plans to leave the following day. Porthos tugged at his curls as he explained, “I may have let it slip that you’d be glad to be away from here and they both jumped on the idea.” Porthos eyed his friend ruefully, looking for any sign of anger, “I don’t think they’ll be dissuaded.”

 

“I see,” Athos replied, taking another drink from his glass. Porthos was correct that he couldn’t wait to get back to Paris, although it was unlikely that he understood Athos’ real reasons for wanting to return. Earlier he’d decided that it was too much to ask of his friends, and yet here they were not only offering to leave but had already decided that it would be so. Athos weighed the risks of leaving a day or two earlier than they likely would have otherwise and decided that the additional time would make little difference, since healing bones were measured in weeks not hours.

 

Resolving himself to avoid another argument, he drained the rest of his glass and stood. “I’ll go inform the Comte that we’ll be departing in the morning and then arrange to have our horses and provisions prepared. I’ll come join you once I’ve finished with the arrangements.”

 

Porthos stared at him sceptically, asking, “You sure about this? I know they think they can handle this but it’ll be a hard ride.”

 

The worry in Porthos’ face spoke volumes and Athos softened his tone as he replied, “We’ll take every precaution and rest frequently. I promise you that they won’t reach Paris in worse condition than they’re in today.” Porthos gave a grateful smile and allowed Athos to leave, following him out so he could return to check on their two friends.

* * *

When Porthos returned to their room, Aramis and d’Artagnan were in the same positions as when he’d left, and Porthos passed both men slowly, checking on the status of their dinner plates. Aramis shook his head in amusement as he made a show of lifting his empty plate for Porthos’ inspection. d’Artagnan’s was somewhat fuller, but Porthos could see that the boy had made an effort to eat what he could. As Porthos cast a critical eye over the young man, he could see the lines of pain again etched onto his face and the shallow breaths that he took in an effort to minimize the ache in his broken ribs and arm. Porthos gathered the plate and returned to lay it on the table, sending an inquiring look at Aramis who explained, “d’Artagnan did well considering, don’t you agree?” he called to the Gascon.

 

“I’ll be able to eat more in the morning before we leave, Porthos. Aramis has promised to find a way of adjusting the dose of medicine the physician provided so I won’t be in pain but will still be able to stay awake.” The Gascon had to stop for several seconds as he regained his breath. “Don’t worry, I won’t slow us down.”

 

Porthos had turned to watch to young man as he’d spoke and compassion now filled his eyes, “No one’s worried that you’ll slow us down. We just want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself further, alright?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and Aramis stood, filling a cup partway with water. “Porthos, can you please fetch me the vial of medicine?” The Gascon watched as the medicine was brought and Aramis stirred a smaller dose into the cup he held. “Let’s try this instead and see what effect it has. If this is still too strong, we’ll dilute it further.” As he handed the cup to the young man, he cautioned, “If this isn’t strong enough for you to manage the pain, you must say so. Pain will drain the body of its strength just as surely as any injury will.”

 

The Gascon tipped his head in acknowledgement and drained the cup he’d been given, handing it back to Aramis and leaning his head against the wall behind him. “How did Athos take the news?” he asked Porthos.

 

“Surprisingly well, considering.” Porthos tugged at his beard as he thought. “I know it’ll be easier once we’re back on the road but I have an idea he’s planning to rabbit when we get back to Paris.”

 

Aramis shared a knowing look with the other man before clasping his friend’s shoulder, “Then we’ll need to make sure that doesn’t happen.” At d’Artagnan’s look of confusion, Aramis explained, “Athos doesn’t do well when alone with his demons. While he might think that to be the best choice, we’ve found that’s not the case and he’ll need us around more than ever to deal with whatever’s troubling him.”

 

d’Artagnan gave an assured nod, “Then we’ll make certain that he has his brothers around to help him.”

 

Porthos grinned at the sentiment, feeling somewhat relieved that although the tensions between the two men still persisted, d’Artagnan seemed determined to find a resolution. “Athos is making arrangements for our departure and I’m guessin’ he’ll want to be gone at first light. I suggest we make the most of tonight and get what sleep we can.”

 

Aramis nodded agreeably as the Gascon yawned widely, making Porthos’ grin widen. The three men finished their preparations for bed and had been asleep for several hours by the time Athos entered the room. For several moments, he stood in the doorway gazing at his brothers, lit by the glow of a single candle that flickered on the table. Moving slowly, he peered at d’Artagnan and Aramis who continued to share the bed, and then shifted his gaze to Porthos who had gathered several blankets to create a nest on the floor beside their bed. Athos couldn’t stop the look of affection that painted his face at the sight and his heart swelled again at the knowledge that these men were willing to leave the comfort of the Comte’s chateau in order to spare him pain.

 

Turning away, he took a seat at the table, hearing the distant chimes of the clock that stood in the chateau’s front entry. His gaze turned to the window and fell on the snow that shimmered under the moonlight, as a single tear fell from his eyes. It was midnight and officially the 24th –Thomas’ birthday - and the start of an especially long and trying twenty-four hours.   


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been less than two hours and he’s already in so much pain that’s he’s nearly senseless. If he were to fall off his horse…” he trailed off, both of them knowing how fragile broken ribs were and how easily a rib could puncture a lung, a condition that would end the boy’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes before you run off and read this chapter. First, apologies if I confused anyone by using the term "rabbit" as a verb in the last chapter. What I meant was the slang definition, meaning to run away or abandon, as in what Athos is likely to do as soon as he's back in Paris. Second, the long-awaited discussion regarding d'Artagnan's ribs is in here, which hopefully has the boys acting in character. Enjoy!

The dawn brought a gray sky that was reminiscent of the day they’d ridden out to check the farms in the surrounding area, and as Athos watched the pale sunlight do its best to cut through the heavy clouds, he shuddered at the memory of what they’d nearly lost as a result of the winter storm. He had managed a few hours’ sleep, leaning his chair back against a wall and resting his feet on another chair, but as morning neared, he’d woken frequently to d’Artagnan’s low moans of pain as the evening’s dose of medicine wore off. Watching the boy as he occasionally tossed his head, his healthy arm moving to cradle the broken one even in sleep, Athos was having serious doubts about the idea of departing today. The weather outside seemed to only reinforce the suggestion that they should remain another day.

 

As he stood looking outside, Athos got the sense that he was being watched and he turned slowly to find d’Artagnan’s weary eyes on him. Moving quietly so the others wouldn’t be disturbed, he poured a cup of water and offered it to the young man. The Gascon gave a small smile of gratitude and sipped slowly, his gaze remaining on his mentor, giving Athos the impression that he was being assessed. He felt the familiar tingle of annoyance beginning to flare and pushed the feelings away, resolute that today would not be the day he lost another brother because he couldn’t keep a calm head. Rather than allowing his annoyance to show, Athos stood in place, forcing his shoulders to relax and his expression to remain neutral. d’Artagnan’s gaze finally shifted from him and he flicked his eyes next to Aramis, who still lay beside him, snoring quietly.

 

“Should we wake them?” he whispered, dropping his hand to his lap, still holding the cup of water.

 

“Probably,” Athos admitted. “I wanted to allow them as much time as possible before we left. The road home will be a difficult one and we’re not likely to find lodgings as comfortable as these again.”

 

d'Artagnan nodded and held the cup out to Athos. “Help me up?” he asked.

 

Athos hesitated a moment and he saw the flicker of doubt in the young man’s eyes at the possibility that Athos would deny him the request. Instead, he placed the cup on the floor and grasped the young man’s arm with one hand, while placing the other hand on d’Artagnan’s back so he could help him up. Athos saw how d’Artagnan bit his lip with the movement, and another shadow of doubt assaulted him at the idea that within the hour he would be placing this boy on a horse where he would sit in agony for several hours. The thought caused Athos to still his movements and d’Artagnan looked up inquiringly. “Athos?”

 

The older man nodded and continued to assist his friend to the edge of the bed, doing his best to ignore the labored breaths and occasional grunt of pain that the action caused. While he waited for the Gascon to compose himself, he took a step back and considered the young man in front of him. “d’Artagnan”, he began, “we don’t have to leave today.”

 

The Gascon’s head snapped up at this comment and he shook his head, “We’ve decided. We’re leaving today.”  

 

The look on the young man’s face challenged Athos to disagree and he knew he’d have to tread carefully, “The weather outside looks poor and I’m concerned that we’ll be caught in another storm. It would be prudent for us to stay here until it passes.”

 

d’Artagnan looked out the window, seeing how overcast it looked outside and shrugged with his good shoulder, “We’ll pack extra supplies and camp somewhere if we have to. According to Porthos’ stories, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had to do that.”

 

Athos drew a deep breath, frustration beginning to well at the fact that the boy was dismissing his concerns and thought so little of his own well-being. “Porthos exaggerates and I assure you, being out in a storm with minimal shelter is no easy matter.”

 

“I know,” the Gascon replied, his tone steely. Athos silently berated himself at having forgotten that just days before, d’Artagnan had kept both himself and Aramis alive through a storm, and he’d done so with minimal supplies and while being injured. Worse, Athos had never expressed his gratitude or his pride at the young man’s actions and had used it as another opportunity to berate his young protégé.

 

Feeling the familiar tension seeping into the room, Athos searched for a way to dispel the awkward silence that had fallen between them. Fortunately, he was saved by movement from the floor, signalling Porthos’ return to wakefulness. Athos took the man’s movements as an opportunity to escape and turned to exit the room, throwing a few words over his shoulder as he left, “Have Porthos wake Aramis. I’ll check on things downstairs and when everything’s ready, we’ll head out.”

 

The Gascon’s head dropped as he experienced similar feelings of frustration at their apparent lack of ability to have any form of civil conversation with each other. Porthos rolled off the ground and stood stretching, taking in the young man’s slumped position at the edge of the bed, “Was that Athos I heard?”

 

“Yes,” he raised his head to look at Porthos. “He’s gone to check how the preparations are coming along and wants us to get ready to go.”

 

Porthos nodded, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Are you alright?”

 

d’Artagnan offered a silent nod and, when it was clear that he had nothing more to say, Porthos squeezed his shoulder before releasing it and moving to wake Aramis. While he did so, the Gascon took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow, and pushed himself slowly to his feet, bracing himself against the wall as the room tilted around him. Since he’d been injured, he’d barely been out of bed and he was determined to get ready with the least possible assistance. From the other side of the bed, Porthos and Aramis watched carefully, concern warring with their desire to give the young man some freedom. As the two men watched the boy shuffle over to the chamber pot, they averted their eyes and Porthos leaned close to Aramis’ ear, “Are you sure he can do this?”

 

In truth Aramis was less than confident of their ability to make the trip back to Paris, and in any other circumstance he would have lobbied for at least another week before allowing the boy to travel. But as he watched the set of the young man’s shoulders, he knew in his heart that there would be no changing his mind and so he whispered back, “We’ll make sure of it.”

 

Porthos still looked uncertain but he moved away so Aramis could rise and turned to address the young man who had finished his business. “Come back over here and we’ll let Aramis have a last look at your ribs and arm, and when he’s done, I’ll help you dress.” d’Artagnan gave an acknowledging nod and began the painful trip back to the bed. Porthos helped lower him down gently and then puttered around aimlessly, allowing him several moments to manage his pain. When his breathing had returned to a more normal rate, Aramis drew up a chair across from the boy and with a glance, indicated his intention to begin his examination.

 

He began by unwrapping the boy’s ribs and pressing gently to ensure that none of the broken bones had shifted out of place. d’Artagnan kept his gaze fixed over Aramis’ shoulder as he tried to keep his breathing steady at the pain his friend was causing. “How did these come to be hurt?” Aramis asked.

 

The Gascon’s gaze snapped to Aramis’ face briefly before flitting away again. “It must have happened when I fell.”

 

“Hmm, and I take it you fell onto someone’s boot?” Aramis continued. “It’s quite difficult to misinterpret the bruising here as anything but a boot print.” He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before capturing the young man’s gaze once again. “If I caused you pain, I would at least like the opportunity to make amends.”

 

“No, Aramis, it wasn’t like that. You were injured and confused, there no need to make amends for anything – you did nothing wrong.”

 

Aramis dipped his head slightly, “I seem to recall thinking I had caught one of our attackers.”

 

“Yes,” the Gascon confirmed in a whisper.

 

Aramis raised his face and squeezed the young man’s arm, “I’m very sorry for this. I hope you can forgive me.”

 

“Aramis, there’s nothing to forgive. We were both hurt and lost, and I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to get you back to the inn sooner. If there’s anyone at fault, it’s me,” d’Artagnan countered.

 

Aramis smiled at the young man’s words, giving a quick shake of his head, “So we forgive each other?”

 

The Gascon grinned in return, dipping his head slightly in agreement.

 

Returning to his task, Aramis murmured, “I’m going to rewrap these now.” d’Artagnan gave a short nod as he again forced himself to breathe as normally as possibly so the bindings would be firm enough to support his ribcage, but not so constricting that he couldn’t take full breaths. When Aramis was finished with his ribs, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, giving him time to gather his strength before moving to the broken arm. When he was ready, d’Artagnan gave another nod and watched as Aramis released his arm from the sling, supporting it carefully with one hand. He lowered the limb gently to the Gascon’s lap and then tenderly pressed along the top of the exposed arm, confirming that the bones were still properly aligned. By the time that he’d secured the broken arm in its sling, d’Artagnan was breathing heavily and his face was covered in a sheen of sweat. Squeezing his shoulder again, Aramis whispered, “I’m sorry.”

 

“S’alright,” d’Artagnan mumbled, having faith that Aramis would never unnecessarily cause him pain. Aramis stood and nodded to Porthos who brought over a cool cloth so the young man could wipe his face and neck, and then sat down in the chair that Aramis had vacated so he could help his friend get dressed.

 

“Ready?” Porthos asked softly. At d’Artagnan’s nod, the larger man pulled a clean shirt over his head and helped him thread his good arm into the sleeve. In unspoken agreement, the injured arm remained tightly bound against the Gascon’s body and the empty sleeve remained hanging at his side. Next, Porthos slipped the breeches over the young man’s ankles and then helped him stand so they could be pulled up to his waist, where Porthos proceeded to lace them. d’Artagnan’s boots and doublet followed and by the time he was dressed, Athos was re-entering the room.

 

He looked at the state of his friends, recognizing that their time had been spent primarily on ensuring the Gascon was ready. “Everything is in order outside. We’ll leave in ten minutes.” He left again and Porthos shared a knowing glance with Aramis. Athos had dark circles under his eyes and his clipped words demonstrated clearly how troubled he was and how hard he was trying to not let it affect him.

 

“I’ll collect our things and get everything loaded onto the horses. While I do that, why don’t you get some medicine into our young friend?” Porthos suggested.

 

Aramis moved to gather his supplies, crouching in front of d’Artagnan to ask, “How was your pain last night?”

 

“Fine, it was enough to let me sleep but not so much that I feel foggy today.”

 

Aramis eyed him warily, “Are you certain? Riding will be quite different from laying in a comfortable bed.”

 

“I know that Aramis,” d’Artagnan huffed. “Last night’s dose was fine. Just give me the same amount again and if it starts to hurt too badly, I’ll let you know.”

 

“Very well,” Aramis conceded. Mixing the required amount, he passed the cup to the young man and stood, taking the cup again when it was empty. “Shall we go find our friends?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and pushed himself upright, accepting Aramis’ offered hand. Aramis gave him a small grin as they exited the room together, “You know, between my dizziness and your shuffling, I’m not sure who’s helping whom.”

* * *

Before they exited the warmth of the chateau, they donned their heavy winter cloaks, Aramis ensuring that d’Artagnan’s was wrapped tightly around him since he wouldn’t be able to adjust it himself. Porthos met them at the door and nodded in approval before turning on his heel to lead them outside. The day felt just as cold as it looked as the weak rays of the sun still struggled to provide any warmth. Aramis looked worriedly at the overcast sky and glanced at Porthos who just shrugged, motioning to where Athos sat, already mounted. Porthos moved to help d’Artagnan into the saddle, while Aramis pulled himself up with only a minor head rush at the change in altitude. When both injured men were seated, Porthos mounted as well, watching as Athos traded parting words with the Comte.

 

A fifth horse stood behind Athos and on its back, Faulcon scowled and waited impatiently for them to depart. By his expression, he was no happier at the thought of leaving the warmth and safety of the chateau and was especially disgusted by the fact that his hands were bound in front of him, his horse’s leads held firmly in Athos’ hands. The Comte stepped back, indicating that their conversation was finished, and Athos applied his heels to his horse’s flanks. He led the group through the gates of the estate, followed first by Faulcon and then d’Artagnan, with Aramis and Porthos taking up the rear. It had taken them three days to make the journey to the Comte’s lands and that was when they were healthy and hale. Their return journey would undoubtedly be longer and Aramis was committed to make the group stop to rest often in deference to d’Artagnan’s injuries.

 

They kept to a walk, partly because of the continued snowy roads that separated them from their destination and partly because of the injuries present among their group. Faulcon looked like he might protest their pace at the onset, but soon the frigid temperatures permeated the layers he wore, and his energy was turned inwards in an effort to stave off the unrelenting cold. d’Artagnan could appreciate the sentiment as he felt the effects of the cold soon after they left, the chill worming its way into his broken bones and setting off an ache that caused him to grit his teeth to ensure no sounds of pain escaped him. He had started the trip sitting tall in the saddle, determined to prove that he could handle the journey, but as his time on horseback wore on, he found himself struggling to remain upright, his ribs providing a painful reminder each time he began to slump, placing an uncomfortable amount on pressure on the healing bones. When he could no longer straighten his back, he compensated by shortening his breaths, making them shallow and leaving him with a slightly lightheaded feeling as his body reacted to lower amounts of air he was pulling in.

 

His posture and breathing had deteriorated to such a point that he was completely unaware of the fact that Porthos and Aramis had pulled even with him, Porthos reaching across to pull his horse to a stop, while Aramis stabilized him with a steadying hand as he swayed. Porthos emitted a loud whistle, alerting Athos at the head of their convoy of their need to stop, and causing d’Artagnan to jerk at the harsh sound so close to his ear. His turned his head first one way and then the next, noting the two men flanking him before looking down at his horse, dumbfounded that they didn’t seem to be moving. “What’s going on?” he asked, slightly breathlessly.

 

Aramis and Porthos shared a concerned look as the former answered the Gascon’s question, “Time for a break. Do you need help down?” Before d’Artagnan had time to think about his reply, Porthos had dismounted and pushed his horse away, allowing him to stand next to the young man and pull him down, bracing him carefully with his own body. As he’d expected, d’Artagnan’s knees folded nearly as soon as his feet touched the ground, and Porthos wrapped his arms gently around the boy’s back to keep him upright. After several seconds, Porthos felt the Gascon take some of his own weight, and he shifted so his shoulder was underneath the boy’s uninjured arm as he moved him off the side of the road where Aramis had laid a blanket on the ground next to a tree. The large man lowered the Gascon to the blanket, allowing him to settle against the tree trunk, before returning to the horses to collect a water skin. In the meantime, Aramis knelt in front of d’Artagnan to gauge his state. “d’Artagnan, how are you feeling?” he asked.

 

The Gascon’s breathing was finally starting to slow down and Aramis was pleased to see somewhat deeper breaths. Unfortunately, the young man’s face was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, which concerned the older man, especially given the cold temperatures. Aramis placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, feeling the fine tremors that ran through his body, “I can’t give you anything more yet for the pain without it knocking you out; it’s too soon.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes seemed to focus at this and he met the other man’s gaze, “S’fine, I’m alright.” Aramis simply nodded and stood, allowing Porthos to take his place so he could help the boy drink. While Porthos tipped the water skin to the Gascon’s lips, Aramis walked to where Athos and Faulcon still sat on their horses.

 

“How is he?” Athos asked.

 

“It’s been less than two hours and he’s already in so much pain that’s he’s nearly senseless. If he were to fall off his horse…” he trailed off, both of them knowing how fragile broken ribs were and how easily a rib could puncture a lung, a condition that would end the boy’s life.

 

Faulcon sniggered as he listened, “At least we did something right.”

 

Athos turned his dark gaze on the other man in warning, “I promise you that your fate is intertwined with his and it is in your best interests that he lives.” Faulcon swallowed nervously at the underlying threat and averted his gaze while the other two returned to their conversation.

 

“Athos, it would be prudent for us to return to the chateau. There’s no harm done and he could be tucked into a warm bed by this afternoon,” Aramis pleaded.

 

Athos looked over at the tree where d’Artagnan rested, his eyes closed and his face still unnaturally pale and gaunt. “How long would he need?”

 

“A week, at least. That would allow the bones to properly begin to mend.”

 

A week! Athos closed his eyes at the thought of having to calm his demons for another seven days and despite his desire to keep his friends safe, he knew he could never last that long. Making the best decision he could given the circumstances, he suggested a different solution. “You and Porthos return with the boy. I’ll ride on with Faulcon to Paris.”

 

“No!”

 

Aramis’ cry had alerted Porthos and d’Artagnan who was now struggling to get to his feet and, if Porthos’ face was any indication, threating to rise on his own if the other man refused to help. Sighing deeply, Porthos lifted the boy to his feet and the two men joined Aramis at Athos’ side.  “What’s going on?” d’Artagnan asked, his gaze much clearer than before.

 

“Athos believes we should return to the chateau while he rides on without us,” Aramis answered.

 

Everyone noticed how Faulcon’s head snapped up at Aramis’ comment and d’Artagnan jumped in right away. “No, it’s too dangerous for you to go on your own. There’s no reason for us to go back.” He glared at his friends, daring them to contradict him.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis began, “you nearly fell off your horse. If we hadn’t been there to catch you the consequences could have been fatal. Clearly the pain of riding is too much.”

 

The Gascon shook his head, “Then drug me. I admit that everything is aching and I may have…lost my focus for a bit, but I can do this.”

 

Porthos laid a hand on the young man’s arm, attempting to reason with him, “Be reasonable, lad, if we drug you, you’ll fall asleep and fall off for sure.”

 

d’Artagnan looked at Athos’ face, waiting to see what he would say, but it seemed his mentor was waiting on him to make a decision. Determining that he would not be stymied, the Gascon countered, “Then tie me to my horse.” His statement was met with matching gasps from the two men beside him, but Athos still stayed silent, an action that only strengthened the young man’s resolve. “Look, you said you’re worried that I’ll fall off, which apparently seems likely whether I’m drugged or not. At least this way you don’t have to worry that I’ll hurt myself any further and we won’t have to separate.” Seeing the indecision in his friend’s faces, d’Artagnan continued, “I’m not going back.”

 

Aramis looked to Athos, knowing that the older man was the only one who’d now be able to talk some sense into the young man, but what he saw there shocked him – Athos nodded. “Do as he asks.”

 

Porthos’ eyes narrowed, just as surprised by Athos’ command as Aramis was. At Athos’ second nod, d’Artagnan turned and made his way back to his horse, expecting Porthos to follow to carry out their leader’s orders. Aramis took a step closer to Athos, grasping his arm and forcing the man to lean down as Aramis hissed in his ear, “Are you mad? Even if I drug him, that doesn’t mean that he’s not harming himself by being out here – just that he won’t feel it.” He looked over at Faulcon, who was again doing his best to eavesdrop, and he lowered his voice even further, “Is getting back to Paris so important that you would put the boy at risk to get there?”

 

Athos’ features darkened and he pulled up abruptly, breaking Aramis’ hold on his arm, “d’Artagnan,” he called, “Aramis seems concerned about this idea. Are you certain you can do this?” At the Gascon’s answering nod, he turned his gaze back to Aramis. “The boy says he can do this. Now let’s get moving. I want to get as far as we can before the weather turns.” With that, he manoeuvered his horse forward several steps, forcing Aramis to back away. Fuming, he returned to his horse, joining his other two friends who had already mounted.

 

Once he was in the saddle, Aramis locked eyes with d’Artagnan who could see the remorse in his eyes. Lowly, d’Artagnan whispered, “It’s alright Aramis, I’ll be fine.” Aramis harrumphed at the statement but didn’t argue, simply falling into place beside the Gascon, while Porthos did the same on the other side. It was so unlike their leader to treat one of them so callously and, Aramis realized, whatever was bothering Athos was not going away and was, instead, getting worse. He and Porthos would have to exert all of their considerable skill on the older man to ensure that he didn’t hurt their youngest or himself as he tried to deal with his troubles.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos moved before Faulcon even had a chance to register the motion, and he found himself leaning back in an effort to get away from the dagger that was now pressed against his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter. For those of you who pointed out Athos' somewhat out of character behaviour, I agree and really wanted to explore what it might be like for him to be under such great stress. Hopefully he redeems himself somewhat in this next installment as we see more of his perspective. Please continue to share your thoughts with me so I can continue to make tweaks and refine future chapters.

Mid-day found d’Artagnan hunched over in his saddle and Aramis grimaced in sympathy as each step of the horse brought with it a low hitching gasp as the young man fought to contain his pain. The minutes since they’d stopped had crawled by and Aramis was relieved when enough time had finally passed that he could dose the boy with another, stronger dose of medicine. With a glance to Porthos, Aramis tugged on the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse, while the other man rode forward to let Athos know they would be stopping. Athos reluctantly pulled his own horse to a halt, dismounting and then watching Faulcon as he did the same. The men moved off the side of the road to a small copse of trees that would offer some shelter from the cool breeze that had begun to blow, chilling the men further. d’Artagnan had once again been placed on top of a blanket, but this time Porthos sat behind him, bracing the boy as his head lolled on the larger man’s shoulder. Aramis pulled out the vial of medicine, crouching in front of the boy to get his attention. Placing a hand on the Gascon’s cheek, he tapped it lightly, “d’Artagnan, it’s time for your medicine.” The young man’s eyes barely fluttered but he obediently opened his mouth so Aramis could place a few drops of the pain draught on his tongue. Next, he guided a water skin to the boy’s mouth so he could wash away the taste, since he’d been unable to dilute the medicine with water while on the road. Rising, Aramis brushed the snow from his knees, “We’ll rest for thirty minutes. That should give the medicine enough time to take effect and allow him some relief.”

 

Athos nodded, taking a length of rope which he looped through the bindings at Faulcon’s wrists before tying the other end to a tree branch several feet away from where Porthos and d’Artagnan sat. Faulcon glowered at him, but Athos was unperturbed and turned away without a second glance, returning to their horses to collect their provisions. Joining the Musketeers on a second blanket that been laid down, he passed around the salted pork and bread that had been packed for them by the Comte’s staff. Unusually, they ate in silence, Athos consumed with thoughts of his dead brother interspersed with frequent glances at the ailing man that lay between them, while Porthos and Aramis worried about the state of their two friends. When their thirty minutes had passed, Athos cast a last concerned look at the Gascon before repacking the food, having given a small portion to Faulcon once they had eaten, and got the bandit back on his horse.

 

Aramis turned to d’Artagnan who had fallen asleep against Porthos’ chest, hesitating a moment at the thought of waking their young friend. Porthos could see the worry in Aramis’ eyes and he had to ask, “Should we really be doing this?” Aramis paused as he considered his answer, knowing that Porthos would probably go against Athos’ wishes if told that d’Artagnan’s life was threatened. But was it? The trip was definitely taking its toll on the young man, but unless he fell off his horse their time spent outside shouldn’t be overly dangerous. It was most certainly a painful experience, but with the physician’s medicine coursing through his veins, the pain would be diminished. Sighing, Aramis finally responded, “It’s not doing him any favours being out here, but I can’t honestly say he’ll be any worse off for it. Perhaps a little skinnier, if anything,” he added, remembering that the Gascon hadn’t eaten after Aramis had drugged him.

 

The two friends worked to wake the Gascon and then to support him as he shuffled, half-awake, back to his horse. It took both of them to get the young man back into the saddle and, as Porthos tied him to the horse so he wouldn’t fall off, Aramis threw a scathing look at Athos to let him know of his displeasure at their continued journey back to Paris. Athos had the good grace to wince and avert his eyes, not so far gone as to be unaware of how his actions were effecting his brothers, and at the same time feeling almost outside of himself as he helplessly continued on his path. He’d watched his friends as they’d tended to the young man and his heart clenched at the Gascon’s condition. As he prayed for the boy to get better, his self-loathing increased, the current situation reinforcing his belief that he was dangerous to his friends and needed to remove himself from their company as soon as possible.

 

The remaining hours of daylight passed in silence, with nothing more than glances shared among the three Musketeers as d’Artagnan’s condition continued to deteriorate along with the weather, causing the men’s exhales to crystallize in front of their faces and frosting their beards and hair. As the sun began to dip, Porthos spurred his horse forward to ride next to Athos, bringing him out of his fugue. “We have to find a place to stop for the night.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow at the man’s words, not necessarily disagreeing but surprised at the man’s vehemence. “Have you forgotten that we have two injured comrades?” Porthos asked.

 

Athos turned in his seat to see Aramis rubbing his temples, his shoulders drooping, clearly in pain. In truth, Athos had forgotten about Aramis’ recent injuries, so focused on d’Artagnan’s condition and his goal of ensuring that nothing prevented him from returning to Paris. With a pang of guilt, Athos nodded, turning to Faulcon. “Do you know of anywhere we can seek shelter for the night?”

 

The bandit seemed hesitant to reply until he realized that a night spent camping outside would be just as uncomfortable for him as for his Musketeer guards. “Up ahead a little ways, take the road to the right. There should be an inn where we can find rooms.”

 

Athos glanced at Porthos to see a satisfied look on his face and then turned back to watch the road ahead, while the other man dropped back to keep an eye on his two ailing friends. By the time they reached the inn, darkness had fallen and was accompanied by the first soft snowflakes, drifting lazily on the breeze that had remained throughout the day. Athos passed the rope leading Faulcon’s horse to Porthos while he went to secure rooms for them at the inn. As they waited, Porthos looked again at his two injured friends, his worry spiking at the fact that Aramis stayed silent and made no attempt to dismount.

 

Athos strode toward them, giving a short nod to indicate that he’d gotten rooms, and Porthos slid wearily off his horse, passing the lead of the bandit’s horse back to Athos while he went to help Aramis down. Athos stood next to Faulcon, again having looped a length of rope around the man’s wrists and he looked on inquiringly, wondering if Porthos would need help. As Aramis came off his horse, he swayed and Porthos motioned for Athos to come help him; he could manage one man on his own, but not two. Athos tied the bandit to the post outside the stable and took Aramis’ weight from Porthos, murmuring quietly in the man’s ear as he fought to regain his equilibrium. “I’ll be back for Faulcon once I’ve got Aramis settled,” Athos called.

 

Porthos set about untying the young man from his horse, surprised to find that the boy was still sleeping. As he moved to pull the Gascon from his horse, he was startled by a low whisper, “Don’t…please.”

 

Porthos peered up at the boy in the dim light and found two pain-filled eyes staring back at him. “Thought you were still asleep,” he said.

 

A minute shake of d’Artagnan’s head followed, “Not sleeping, not for a while now.” Porthos frowned at the boy’s statement, especially since he’d been slumped over the neck of his horse since they’d medicated him several hours earlier. At his friend’s look of confusion, d’Artagnan mumbled, “Couldn’t sit up.” Porthos processed his friend’s words, horrified at the fact that the boy had lain in what had to be a terribly painful position, placing extra weight on his broken ribs and arm, because he’d lacked the strength to push himself up. Placing a hand on the boy’s thigh, Porthos sighed, his words heavy with regret, “I’m sorry, we should have checked.”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head again, “Not your fault.”

 

Porthos disagreed but realized that arguing with the boy served little purpose and the most important thing now was to get the young man inside and tucked into bed. “d’Artagnan, I’m sorry, but I have to get you down.” He waited until the young man had made eye contact before continuing, “I’ll be as quick and as gentle as I can.” He could see the Gascon bracing himself for what was to come. When he seemed ready, Porthos pulled on the young man’s arm, simply allowing the boy’s body to slide sideways into his arms. The motion was quick but Porthos still caught the short intake of air as d’Artagnan’s broken bones were jarred.

 

He began moving toward the entryway of the inn, Faulcon calling after him, “You’re supposed to wait until the other one comes back for me.”

 

Porthos grunted, his steady steps continuing to carry him forward, “You can stay out here and freeze for all I care.”

 

He passed Athos at the doorway, completely ignoring the older man’s look of disapproval at not having waited for his return. Inside, the innkeeper waited, motioning to the stairs, “Room at the top, on the left. Your friend’s already in there.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of thanks as he passed by and began to climb, pleased to find a warm fire already pushing back the chill of the room and Aramis on one of the two beds, eyes closed and resting comfortably in just his shirt and breeches. He moved to the second bed and leaned over slowly, depositing d’Artagnan on the mattress before standing to crack his stiff back. The young man watched him through hazy eyes, not making any attempt at moving from where he’d been placed. His shallow breaths came quickly and Porthos frowned at the gray cast to his normally olive skin. Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he said, “I’ll be right back.” The young man didn’t give any indication that he’d understood and Porthos sighed unhappily, hoping that the Gascon was aware enough to process his words.

 

Moving swiftly, Porthos strode back down the stairs and out to their horses, again passing Athos as the older man brought Faulcon inside, still leading him by the length of rope around his wrists. Porthos gathered their saddlebags from the horses, taking extra care to bring Aramis’ bag which contained the physician’s vial. By the time he’d rejoined his friends, Faulcon was scowling at having been tied to a chair which sat in one far corner of their room, and Athos had divested himself of his weapons and was talking in hushed tones to Aramis. Both Musketeers looked up at the larger man’s arrival and Aramis made an attempt to rise, which was stopped by Athos’ hand on his chest. Their leader gave a quick shake of his head, indicating to Porthos, “We can take care of this. Just rest for now.”

 

He left Aramis’ side and watched as Porthos unpacked d’Artagnan’s medicine, handing him a cup so that he could mix it with water. When he’d finished, Porthos returned to the young man’s side, Athos staying a few steps behind, simply watching, concerned that his presence might again upset the boy. “d’Artagnan, can you open your eyes for me?” Porthos could tell by the Gascon’s stiff posture that he was still awake. When he saw two fuzzy eyes staring up at him, Porthos motioned to Athos to hand him the cup, moving to lift the boy’s head slightly and tipping the liquid into his open mouth. Partway through, d’Artagnan choked and began to cough, having trouble breathing as he drank due to the tenderness of his ribcage. Porthos pulled the cup away immediately and handed it to Athos, who’d stepped forward when the coughs erupted, hands itching to soothe the injured man’s misery. The Gascon’s face screwed up in pain and Athos and Aramis looked on helplessly as Porthos pulled the young man upright against his chest, rubbing his back until the fit passed. When he’d stopped coughing, d’Artagnan slumped boneless against the larger man, a soft sob escaping him at the unrelenting ache that throbbed through his upper body.

 

“Hey, it’s alright now,” Porthos soothed. “I know that hurt but the medicine will take the edge off soon. Just breathe as evenly as you can.” Porthos continued to hold the young man and felt as he struggled to regulate his breathing, which slowly calmed as the larger man gently stroked his back. Aramis cast a careful eye on Athos as Porthos cared for their young friend, noting the despair and guilt that seemed to emanate from the man in waves. A part of him felt satisfaction that the older man felt badly for what he’d asked of his friends, but the feeling was fleeting as he reminded himself that it was out of love not guilt that they had decided to return for Athos’ sake.

 

“Athos,” Porthos directed softly, “gather some extra pillows behind d’Artagnan’s back so he’s not lying flat.”

 

Athos nodded numbly and did as he’d been told, while the larger man eased d’Artagnan out of his cloak and doublet. When the pillows were stacked, Porthos eased the Gascon back slowly, not releasing him until the boy was fully supported by the down padding behind him. Athos caught his first proper glimpse of the young man’s face and had to avert his eyes, stunned at the deep lines of pain that creased his brow and the clamminess of his skin. Had he done this? And to a man he claimed as a brother? He shuddered involuntarily and turned quickly, mumbling something about wine and food before he almost staggered through the door. Porthos and Aramis both watched him go, neither man attempting to stop him, knowing that he carried a deep remorse at what he’d allowed d’Artagnan to do to himself on his behalf.

 

Turning his gaze downwards, Porthos saw that the Gascon had drifted off to sleep and decided to let him rest until Athos brought back food, hoping that the time would ease his pain enough that he could manage something to eat. Rising from the boy’s bed, Porthos threw a quick look at the bandit to ensure the man was still securely tied, and then made his way over to set at Aramis’ side. “How’re you feeling?”

 

Aramis offered a small smile at his friend’s concern, “Better. I just needed to close my eyes and rest for a bit. That’s the terrible thing about head injuries, they’re a literal pain in the head.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at his friend’s poor joke, his face turning serious a few seconds later. “He was awake, you know?” Aramis’ eyes widened at the revelation. “He was too weak to lift himself upright so he just laid across his horse’s neck the whole time.” Porthos swallowed, a haunted look in his eyes, “Can you even imagine how painful that would have been?”

 

Aramis’ eyes darted to the young man, taking in his appearance with new understanding. He placed a hand on Porthos’ arm in comfort, not trusting himself to speak since he shared the larger man’s sorrow at the boy’s situation. Finally, he assured, “We’ll keep a far closer eye on him tomorrow. Clearly he lacks the good sense to say anything and it’s up to us to keep him from hurting himself further.”

 

Porthos nodded, grateful to have an ally in the task of keeping the boy safe. Normally it would have been unnecessary to safeguard the boy, but the tension between Athos and d’Artagnan meant that the young man was bereft of his usual protector and, worse yet, it was Athos’ need to get home that was causing the boy harm. Porthos pitched his voice so that only Aramis would be able to hear, resolving that he needed to share some of what had been effecting their friend so deeply, “Today’s the 24th – Thomas’ birthday.” Aramis looked up sharply at the quiet words, recognizing their significance immediately.

 

“Mon dieu, it’s a miracle he’s still functioning. I would have expected he’d be curled up in a bottle somewhere by now,” Aramis stated.

 

Porthos dipped his head in agreement, “Probably why he’s in such a hurry to get back to Paris. He’s too honorable to leave us while we still have a mission to complete, but as soon as we’re back…” _As soon as they returned, Athos would disappear._ They both knew this to be true, Athos having done the exact same thing many times in the past, but almost never in the past few years since they had become the inseparables. For some reason, the men’s bonds of brotherhood and unfailing acceptance of each other had tempered Athos’ need to hide away from the world; while he still drank to excess on occasion, he always did so with his friends nearby so they could watch over him and return him safely to his rooms at the end of the night.

 

"We cannot let him do this, Porthos, especially not while he and d’Artagnan are at odds. The boy will blame himself if Athos disappears,” Aramis declared.

 

Porthos offered a small quirk of his lips as he agreed, “Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t have the chance to shake us off. We should be alright while we’re travelling, but one of us will stay with him at all times once we’re back.”

 

Their conversation was interrupted by Athos’ return, the man carrying a tray of food and several bottles of wine, even going to the extent of tucking one under each of his arms when the tray could hold nothing more. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the amount of alcohol their friend had brought, but reminded himself that Athos had nowhere to go no matter how much he drank that night. Rising, he took the tray from Athos so the man wouldn’t drop the bottles, “Here, let me help you with that.”

 

He placed the tray on the small table and grabbed a bowl of stew and bread for Aramis, bringing it over to the man’s bed since the room only held two chairs, one of which was already occupied with their prisoner. Faulcon sneered at the Musketeers as he watched them dole out the food, “What about me? Am I to starve?”

 

Porthos growled at the man, “You’ll get yours when we’ve finished. Until then I suggest you shut that big mouth before we’re forced to gag you.” The accompanying scowl on the Musketeer’s face was enough to quiet the bandit and he watched the men bitterly as they settled to eat. They let d’Artagnan rest a while longer and only woke him when they’d finished, knowing that the boy needed the time to recover so that the pain would have receded enough to have an appetite. Athos remained in his chair, Porthos having joined Aramis on his bed while they ate, and now watched as the larger man moved from his seat to wake their youngest brother. Aramis followed him over and sat on d’Artagnan’s other side, wanting to check on him once he was more aware. As he sat down, he was keenly aware of Athos’ eyes on him, his desire to join them at the boy’s side almost palpable.

 

Porthos tapped d’Artagnan’s cheek and called his name, urging him to open his eyes. Aramis smiled at how quickly the Gascon awoke, “It’s good to see you awake. How’s your pain?”

 

d’Artagnan considered for a moment before responding, “Better. How long was I asleep?”

 

“No more than an hour,” Aramis assured.

 

“Feel like you could eat something?” Porthos asked.

 

The Gascon looked past Porthos, seeing Athos seated at the table, a dour look on his face. Misinterpreting the look as anger, d’Artagnan allowed a small sigh to escape as he nodded. In truth, he had little interest in food but knew he should be hungry and needed to eat if he was to be fit enough to handle the next day’s ride. Porthos eagerly brought a bowl of stew over and held it for him while he spooned some of it into his mouth. Trying to distract himself, d’Artagnan asked, “How far do you think we travelled today?”

 

Aramis seemed uncertain and Porthos shifted his eyes away, leaving an opportunity for Athos to answer. “Not nearly far enough,” he stated, his irritation welling at the length of the journey that still lay ahead of them. “At this rate, it’ll take us a week to get back.”

 

Aramis watched a flicker of emotion cross the boy’s face before he quickly masked it by taking another spoonful of stew. “Surely it’s not that bad, Athos,” Aramis placated. “Travel in wintertime is often… uncertain. The most important thing is that we return safely.” Athos glowered at the comment but said nothing more, moving instead to bring a bowl of stew to Faulcon.

 

“You’re not feeding me!” the bandit protested, his hands and arms bound to the chair. Athos gave him a mildly disgusted look as he put the bowl down on the floor before drawing both his pistol and dagger. Aiming the pistol at the man and watching him carefully, Athos cut the rope binding one arm so the man would be able to feed himself. When he’d replaced the dagger at his back, he lowered himself down and picked up the bowl, depositing it in the bandit’s lap. Stepping back, he leaned against the wall, looking almost disinterested as he kept the pistol aimed at Faulcon, indicating with it that he should eat. Faulcon gave another look of loathing before he picked up the spoon and dipped it into the carefully balanced bowl on his thighs. When he’d finished, Porthos re-tied the man’s free arm while Athos kept watch.

 

Having filled their stomachs and found safe haven for the night Athos turned away from the bandit as he announced, “Sleep, I’ll take first watch.”

 

“Wake me for second watch,” Porthos said, accompanying his words with a look that told the man to let Aramis sleep through the night and to go easy on the wine. Athos tipped his head in understanding and retook his chair, laying his pistol on the table so that it was readily available if needed. Aramis, in the meantime had helped the Gascon get comfortable, managing to get the rest of the pain draught into him once he’d finished eating. Now, he settled back on his own bed, patting the spot beside him in anticipation of Porthos joining him. He didn’t wait for the larger man, but simply rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, the day having taken its toll on his still recovering body. Porthos did a last check on d’Artagnan, confirming that the boy was already asleep, before he removed his weapons, boots and doublet and slipped into bed next to his friend.

 

As his friends dozed, Athos poured his first glass of wine, fully intending to make a significant dent in the supply he’d brought up to their room. Faulcon watched his actions with interest, wondering if the Musketeer would get drunk enough to allow him an opportunity to escape. The two men sat in silence for the first hour, Athos’ gaze remaining sharp as he finished the first bottle and started on his second.

 

“That boy’s slowing us down, you know,” Falucon declared. “Bet we could make it to Paris tomorrow night if we left him here.” He noted the flicker of interest that sparked in the man’s eyes, even though his expression remained neutral. “He seems kind of young and…scrawny to be a Musketeer.” Athos still said nothing but was clearly paying attention to the bandit’s words. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you…all doe-eyed and worshipping-like. It must be a pain to have him always following you around like a lost puppy.” Athos drew a deep breath at the man’s words, but was still unwilling to respond.

 

“I’ve seen it before, you know, and it can’t last.” Faulcon could tell the Musketeer was waiting to hear what he would say next, curious to know what he was referring to. “Eventually, he’ll figure out you’re just a man and a broken one at that. What will happen then, when he realizes you’re nothing special and he’s wasted his time idolizing someone who doesn’t deserve his affection?”

 

Athos moved before Faulcon even had a chance to register the motion, and he found himself leaning back in an effort to get away from the dagger that was now pressed against his neck. As Athos leaned closer to whisper in the man’s ear, Faulcon could feel the sting on his neck as the dagger broke the sensitive skin. “You know nothing of us,” Athos hissed. “That boy is worth a hundred of you and you would do well to keep your opinions to yourself if you wish to arrive in Paris intact.” Abruptly, the Musketeer pulled back and Faulcon found himself able to breathe again, watching as the other man turned on his heel and calmly retook his seat, lifting his wine glass to his lips as though nothing had happened. It was in this moment that Faulcon realized just how dangerous this man was but, he reminded himself, d’Artagnan was still the weak link. There would be another opportunity tomorrow, he was sure of it, and he would focus his efforts on the boy to make good his escape.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They rode on in silence for several minutes, Faulcon watching the Musketeer closely, having noticed the hitched breaths and continuous grimaces that the boy had been hiding from his friends. Sensing that his opportunity might be close, he tried again to engage in conversation, pitching his voice lowly so that the others couldn’t hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your continued support of this story and for your wonderful comments. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

The following morning was just as bleak as the day prior and snow continued to fall slowly but steadily, blanketing the ground with a fine layer of powder but, fortunately, not obscuring their vision. Athos had finally stumbled to Porthos’ side in the early morning hours, waking him and then taking his place next to Aramis. Accustomed to sharing a bed with one or the other of his brothers, Aramis had simply snuggled closer in search of warmth and slept on. Porthos had been unhappy at the three empty bottles he’d found, but considering that Athos had brought four, he reasoned that it could have been worse; Faulcon was still tied and dozing in his chair and Athos had remained aware enough to wake him.

 

As the first weak rays of dawn emerged, Porthos rubbed tiredly at his face, already dreading the long, cold day that awaited them. He’d watched as Aramis snuggled comfortably next to Athos, the latter snoring quietly and completely oblivious that he’d become Aramis’ heat source, and d’Artagnan who intermittently coughed in his sleep, the action causing him to grimace even while resting. Porthos was still torn about their plan of action and had been second-guessing their decision to travel since he’d awoken. He acknowledged that returning to Paris was in Athos’ best interests, but continued to wonder if d’Artagnan would end up paying too high a price in return. Their first day of riding had been tiring and painful for both of their injured friends and Porthos had no doubt that their second day would be worse since they were already tired from the day prior. He sighed deeply, his head dropping as his thoughts offered no easy answers, and was startled to hear a voice calling to him from across the room.

 

“It’s far too early to be so deeply in thought, my friend,” Aramis teased softly.

 

Porthos lifted his head in surprise, a smile gracing his face at seeing his friend awake. He made to get up but Aramis waved to him to stay seated and he carefully rolled out of bed instead. Helping himself to a glass of wine, Aramis toasted him before bringing it to his lips to take a swallow. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the action, “Little early for that, isn’t it?”

 

Aramis merely shrugged, “I expect today to be difficult and thought I should fortify myself appropriately.” He took another sip and then pointed at the empty bottles, “Besides, if we don’t drink it, Athos will.”

 

Porthos grinned ruefully at the comment, knowing Aramis was correct. “Think we should wake the others?”

 

“Perhaps just d’Artagnan,” Aramis responded. Porthos looked around Aramis to see Athos rising from the bed and Faulcon staring at them.

 

Porthos shook his head, “How’d you do that?”

 

“It’s a gift my friend, honed by years of evading jealous husbands,” Aramis replied with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

 

Porthos pulled himself to his feet, “Then I’d best see about something for breakfast and,” he eyed Athos, “something for our hung-over friend.” Aramis nodded and drained his glass, placing it on the table before turning to check on d’Artagnan.

 

He was pleased that the young man seemed to have slept through the night but the boy didn’t look all that much better for his time in bed. His skin was still far paler than normal and his face showed the weight he’d lost thanks to their time outside and the pain of his injuries. Aramis sat gently on the bed and placed a hand on the boy’s forehead, satisfied that his temperature, while a little warm, didn’t seem overly concerning. At his touch, the Gascon startled, taking a deep breath which turned into several weak coughs. Aramis shifted the young man up, supporting him while the painful exhales were driven from his lungs. Fortunately the coughing jag was short, but the effects could be seen in the young man’s features when Aramis laid him back against the pillows; d’Artagnan’s eyes watered with unshed tears and his breaths were far too shallow for Aramis’ liking as the boy worked to even his breathing and reduce the strain on his sore chest.

 

Aramis remained at his side while the boy recovered, keeping a hand on the boy’s leg to let him know he wasn’t alone. Several breaths later, d’Artagnan opened his eyes and focused on Aramis, offering a small smile. “Thanks,” he whispered.

 

“No thanks are necessary,” Aramis assured with a return smile. “How are you feeling today?”

 

Aramis could see the indecision on d’Artagnan’s face as he contemplated his response. Biting his lip, the young man answered, “Not great; I’m actually looking forward to my medicine.” His eyes dropped at the admission and Aramis squeezed his leg.

 

“Thank you for being honest with me. I’ll mix the draught now and then you’ll have to try eating something.” Aramis lifted the boy’s chin and caught his gaze, “Are you up to travelling today?” Again, he saw the conflicting emotions on d’Artagnan’s face but, unsurprisingly, he nodded; sadly, Aramis had expected no less. Giving a last squeeze to the boy’s leg, Aramis rose and mixed the promised pain draught, steadying the Gascon’s hand for a moment when it trembled as he took the proffered cup. The young man drained it quickly, another sign of the amount of pain he was dealing with. d’Artagnan closed his eyes and relaxed back against the pillows, while Aramis shifted his gaze to Athos who now sat brooding in the chair. Athos had never been a morning person, at least not in the time that Aramis had known him; of course, Aramis had never known him before the drinking, and he wondered for a moment what Athos had been like before life had so cruelly taken from him so much.

 

Shaking himself from these thoughts, Aramis walked to the table to put down the cup and placed a hand on Athos’ shoulder to get the man’s attention. Athos looked up at him, eyes bloodshot but relatively clear considering the combination of wine and lack of sleep. “A day of rest would do the boy a world of good,” Aramis stated quietly. Athos’ eyes flickered to the Gascon’s resting form where he still reclined and then looked back at the serious look on Aramis’ face.

 

“Is he in any danger if we continue?” Athos asked.

 

Aramis wanted to lie but knew that Athos would be able to see through his deceit. A look of regret on his face, his shook his head, speaking quickly, “No, but the trip is hard on him and will likely slow his healing.”

 

“He’ll heal better in the comfort of his own bed. We’ll continue on today as planned.”

 

“Athos,” Aramis started, pleadingly, but he fell silent at the glare he received from Athos. “Fine, but any harm that befalls the boy will be on your head,” he hissed. He turned his back to the older Musketeer and was relieved when the sound of footsteps heralded Porthos’ return.

 

As he entered Porthos could already sense the tension in the room and he swallowed the urge to groan, moving forward with a cheerful ‘good morning’ to place a basket of food on the table and a bucket of water at Athos’ feet. Athos glanced at it as water sloshed over the side. “Use it. If we’re to ride today, you’ll need your wits about you,” Porthos ordered in a no-nonsense tone.

 

Obligingly, Athos moved from his chair and dunked his head into the cold water, remaining submerged for several seconds before lifting his head out and flinging wet hair away from his eyes. Aramis threw him a tattered towel, “Dry off, this weather’s too cold for you to be outside with a wet head.”

 

From his spot in the corner, Faulcon watched the Musketeers, inwardly shaking his head at the men’s actions – he was now certain that he’d had the misfortune to be captured by lunatics; but even though their behaviours were unorthodox, a strong sense of caring seemed to underlie even the harshest of words. As he continued his observations, Aramis helped the boy eat and then to take care of his morning ablutions. The two others moved in and out of each other’s space easily, portioning food, repacking the saddlebags and generally getting ready to depart, all without needing to exchange words. Everything he saw spoke of men who were intimately familiar with each other’s moods and strengths, automatically adjusting and compensating for one another, seemingly without conscious thought. While he could appreciate and even envy the bond these men shared, he now looked to turn it to his advantage, noting again how protective the men were of their youngest, especially the handsome one and the large one. While his attempts at creating a rift the previous night had failed, the Musketeer’s reaction spoke of strong feelings for the boy, but also something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet.

 

Faulcon looked up as he heard a gasp of pain. “Aramis, stop,” d’Artagnan hissed as the man fussed with his sling. His words had garnered Athos’ and Porthos’ attention, Porthos grinning slightly at his friend’s mothering and Athos frowning at the young man’s reaction. Taking several steps towards the bed, Athos waited until Aramis had pulled a shirt over the boy’s head before speaking, “Aramis believes you to be too unwell to travel today.”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze moved from Athos to Aramis and then back again, a confused look on his face. “I’m fine.” Athos continued to stare at him silently while Aramis glowered at the older man. As the silence stretched, the Gascon spoke again, “Really, I’m alright. I’ve had my medicine and I’m ready to leave.”

 

“You’re certain it wouldn’t be best if we separated so you have some time to rest?” Athos offered, tendrils of guilt and shame wrapped around his heart at the previous day’s events.

 

A look of panic crossed the young man’s face, quickly shifting to anger and then determination, “I’m certain that it would be best if we stayed together and headed for Paris with all possible haste.”

 

Athos felt the pull of Paris like a tangible thing as he looked meaningfully at Aramis. “It seems our young friend disagrees with your assessment.”

 

Aramis pushed down the frustration that was threatening, plastering a broad smile on his face instead, “Of course, it seems I was mistaken. It’s not like d’Artagnan has ever misled us about his health in the past.”

 

Athos flinched at Aramis’ statement, but didn’t refute it. “I’ll go check on the horses. Porthos, please see to our prisoner so Aramis can help d’Artagnan get ready.” At that, he turned and exited the room, leaving four sets of eyes staring at his departing back.

 

“Bloody hell, there are times I’d like to ring his bell, but good,” Porthos griped under his breath.

 

Aramis heard the sentiment and shook his head; it was apparent that last night’s drinking had done little to improve Athos’ mood and today was very likely to be a repeat of the day before. His thoughts were interrupted by d’Artagnan, who know looked at him accusingly, “How could you?” Aramis looked confused at the question. “How could you suggest that I need to stay here? We agreed that it’s best to get Athos back home as quickly as possible.”

 

“Now lad,” Porthos placated, but Aramis held up a hand to stop him.

 

“I’m sorry d’Artagnan; it was not my intention to upset you. I merely made the suggestion because yesterday was hard on you and I’d hoped that Athos might see the benefit of stopping for an extra day,” Aramis explained.

 

“I can handle it, Aramis, I don’t need to be coddled so,” the young man retorted.

 

“No one doubts your strength or your courage, d’Artagnan, but our concern for our brothers encompasses you,” Aramis soothed.

 

Porthos had moved closer and now placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “You’re both important to us and we won’t trade your wellbeing for his.”

 

d’Artagnan dipped his head in understanding, the anger he’d felt moments before instantly gone. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so difficult,” he said.

 

Porthos gave his shoulder a squeeze and Aramis smiled, “I think we’d better get a move on before Athos decides we’ve taken too long and his mood deteriorates.”

 

Porthos grunted and moved to collect the saddlebags, intending to take them out to the horses before returning for Faulcon. As he moved to go, he asked, “Can you manage him while I take care of these?”

 

Aramis spared a glance at the bandit who was still trussed to the chair, “Porthos, you wound me. We are Musketeers after all.” The larger man rolled his eyes and left to complete his task.

 

Aramis helped d’Artagnan finish dressing, both men completely ignoring Faulcon’s glare at having been dismissed so easily by the Musketeers. By the time Porthos returned, the two were ready to leave and Aramis pulled d’Artagnan slowly to his feet, allowing him several moments to adjust to his new position. Aramis motioned to the bandit, “Do you need any help?”

 

“Nah, as you said earlier, we’re Musketeers,” Porthos grinned broadly. At the bandit’s resulting growl, the large man’s grin impossibly widened as he moved forward to release the man. They took a few minutes so that Faulcon could use the chamber pot and then Porthos shoved a baguette in the man’s hands as he pushed him towards the door. As they made their way outside, Faulcon reaffirmed his promise to himself that he would find a way today to escape the men’s custody. 

* * *

It was difficult to tell if d’Artagnan was feeling better or if he had simply gotten better at hiding his discomfort. They had been on horseback for nearly two hours and, while his position was somewhat hunched in deference to his broken bones, it was a vast improvement over what they’d experienced the previous day. Aramis exchanged a look with Porthos as they both kept a close eye on the Gascon, the doubt clear in both men’s eyes that the young man could have miraculously recovered overnight. Sensing his friends’ gazes on his back, d’Artagnan spurred his horse forward so that he rode closer to the bandit, pulling up nearly beside him. Faulcon looked at him disinterestedly before grunting at him, “What do you want?”

 

d’Artagnan threw him a scowl in return, hoping that the man would get the message that he wasn’t interested in conversation, “Nothing, now be quiet.”

 

They rode on in silence for several minutes, Faulcon watching the Musketeer closely, having noticed the hitched breaths and continuous grimaces that the boy had been hiding from his friends. Sensing that his opportunity might be close, he tried again to engage in conversation, pitching his voice lowly so that the others couldn’t hear. “Why are your friends so anxious to get back to Paris?” He received a glare but the Gascon remained silent. “Seems to me that a proper leader would care enough about his men to allow them time to heal.”

 

At that, d’Artagnan looked up sharply as he hissed back, “Athos is a proper leader and going back was our choice, not his.”

 

Faulcon nodded, pleased that his words had elicited a response. “Is that why he’s willing to put up with you, ‘cause you’ll do whatever he wants? Do you feel like you have to do this to make up for all the mistakes you’ve made?”

 

d’Artagnan threw the man beside him a murderous look and glanced back quickly to ensure that Aramis and Porthos hadn’t ridden any closer. “I have nothing to prove. I’m a Musketeer in my own right and I am on this mission on my own merit.” Faulcon plastered a disbelieving look on his face but said nothing, allowing the boy to consider his words, seeing the doubt in the boy’s eyes despite the brave words. d’Artagnan fell silent, forcing his face to remain neutral and not let on how profoundly the man’s words had stung. Since their fall and subsequent mishap in the snow, the young man had been berating himself for his actions, continuously frustrated that everything he said and did seemed only to contribute to the rift between himself and Athos. For his failings to now be pointed out by their prisoner only deepened his misgivings and made him wonder again if this would be the last mission he’d be allowed to go on with the three inseparables.

 

Faulcon smiled inwardly at the Musketeer’s silent brooding, congratulating himself on his ability to fan the doubt that had already been plaguing the young man. He was certain that, as a result of his words, the boy would continue to push himself beyond his body’s limits, hopefully providing the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Over the next hour, nothing more was said but Faulcon watched as the Gascon’s state deteriorated. It began with quiet whimpers that escaped on every exhale, and the bandit could see the boy biting his lip to contain the sounds. Next came the trembling of his hands on the reins and the increased frequency with which the boy closed his eyes in order to manage his pain as he forced himself to stay mostly upright in the saddle. Faulcon was confident that the boy would fall unconscious soon and he prepared himself by grasping the rope that had bound his hands which, unknown to the Musketeers, he’d managed to untie. As he saw the first subtle shift of the boy’s body that heralded his impending collapse, Faulcon pulled out the length of rope and whipped it viciously across the backside of the Musketeer’s horse, causing it to whiny in alarm and immediately break into an uncontrolled run. Aramis and Porthos cried out, spurring their horses in pursuit as d’Artagnan swayed dangerously before falling forward over the horse’s neck. Athos was left staring at the three men as they thundered away, unaware that Faulcon had pulled abreast of him and was now pulling his pistol from its holster.

 

Athos caught the movement from the corner of his eye and was able to grasp the hands that were moving the pistol into position, forcing the bandit’s hand up at the last second so that the ball passed by harmlessly. Faulcon moved quickly with the motion, bringing the pistol back down to land a blow to Athos’ temple, dislodging the Musketeer from his horse. The bandit followed him down, determined to finish things quickly before the other three returned. What he hadn’t counted on was that the glancing blow to Athos’ head merely dazed him and by the time that Faulcon was on the ground, Athos was already rolling to stand and meet him. Fear for his brothers motivating him to end things quickly, Athos drew his dagger and released it in an underhand throw before he was fully upright. Faulcon’s eyes widened in astonishment as his brain telegraphed the pain of his injury, blood already welling through his doublet to stain the cloth of his cloak at his heart. The bandit’s eyes lost focus as he fell forward, landing face down in the snow to drive the dagger further into his chest.

 

Athos straightened and took several deep breaths, wiping irritably at his forehead where his pistol had broken the skin. He turned and looked in the direction that his friends had taken, cursing the fact that he couldn’t see anything in the gently falling snow. Stepping forward, he rolled the bandit onto his back, ignoring the sightless eyes that stared at the gray sky as he bent and pulled his dagger from the man’s chest, wiping it on the man’s doublet before replacing it at his back. Pausing for only a moment, he hefted the bandit’s body onto the back of the horse, tying his legs and arms swiftly so that he didn’t fall off. Then, recapturing the horse’s lead, he mounted his own steed and moved as quickly as he dared to follow his brothers’ path, fear for their youngest member driving him forward.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis tugged at his hair, the worry clear on his face. “We can’t leave him alone. He doesn’t even have the good sense to drink where he won’t have his throat slit. If you hadn’t been there tonight…” Aramis trailed off, not willing to give voice to his morbid thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger from the previous chapter and thanks for hanging on to find out what happens next...enjoy!

Porthos and Aramis had moved immediately to follow d’Artagnan, recognizing that the young man was not nearly aware enough to control his startled horse. Added to the horse’s state was the dangerous, snow-covered path they travelled, and both Musketeers knew they needed to stop the horse quickly or risk severe injury to themselves and their mounts. Porthos quickly outdistanced Aramis, the latter man still suffering the effects of his head wounds and, as he was nearly abreast of the Gascon, he cried out as the boy slipped sideways from his horse. Knowing that Aramis would stop and check on the young man, Porthos reached over to grab the reins, pulling the horse to a gentle stop.

 

Aramis had watched as their young friend had fallen from his mount, bouncing sickeningly and rolling before he stopped, partially on his side. He dismounted quickly, looking worriedly at the Gascon who lay limply in the snow. At Porthos’ inquiring look, Aramis crouched down to place a hand on the young man’s neck, relieved to feel the steady beat of his heart. “Passed out,” he said in explanation.

 

“Should we…” Porthos motioned back in the direction from which they’d come.

 

Aramis looked hesitant, torn between his desire to examine the young man and return to check on Athos. Seeing his friend’s indecision, Porthos suggested, “Why don’t you have a look while I ride back and get Athos?”

 

Aramis nodded gratefully and Porthos released the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse, turning away and heading back to fetch the older man. Aramis wasted no time in gently rolling the Gascon to lay flat on his back, taking care to brace the boy’s injured arm. He was startled by how pale the boy looked, contrasting starkly with the deep bruising that was appearing beneath both eyes and told of too many pain-filled hours and too little sleep. Near his face, the young man’s hair was damp with sweat, and Aramis realized with a groan that d’Artagnan had been suffering silently for a while to have reached this state. He rubbed a hand across his face, cursing himself again at having allowed such folly, bringing a spike of pain to his head as his own reserves were tested.

 

Pushing away his discomfort, Aramis forced himself to concentrate as he probed the young man’s head for any injuries that might be hidden by his hair. He prodded at the boy’s uninjured side and arm, resolving to leave the existing injuries for last, and continued down both legs, breathing a sigh of relief when he found nothing new. Returning to the boy’s injured side Aramis slipped a hand under the Gascon’s doublet, pressing gently at each rib and finding a third one was now broken. A sound of disgust escaped him at the discovery and he turned next to the boy’s splinted arm, pleased when he found that the bones had not shifted. He sat back on his heels, considering the boy’s condition, wondering why he was still unconscious. He knew that the young man had been considerably fatigued, but the cold snow he now lay on combined with Aramis’ touch on his injuries, should have been enough to provoke at least some signs of awareness.

 

Removing a glove, he placed his hand on the boy’s face, surprised at how cold and clammy the skin felt. He leaned forward, placing an ear to the boy’s mouth and a hand on his chest, and frowned at the Gascon’s rapid, shallow breaths. Concern nearly overwhelmed him at he reached for the boy’s wrist and searched for the boy’s pulse, discovering it to be rapid and weak. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled for a moment as he turned, intending to get the young man onto his horse. As he stood, he was relieved to see Porthos and Athos moving towards him and he called to them, waving an arm in the air, “Hurry, we must get him warm!”

 

The two Musketeers came to a stop in front of Aramis who was pulling off his cloak in an attempt to wrap it around the young man. Porthos slipped off his horse and stayed Aramis’ hand, knowing that his friend needed the warmth as well. “Aramis, what are you doing?”

 

Aramis looked at him with wild eyes, “He’s going into shock. We must warm him immediately.” Porthos released his hold on Aramis’ shoulder, allowing the man to throw his cloak onto the young man.

 

“I’ll collect some wood for a fire,” Porthos said. Scanning the area around them, he pointed to a spot a short distance away that would allow them some protection from the elements. “Athos, help Aramis get d’Artagnan to those trees and get him off the cold ground.”

 

Athos moved to comply, again stunned into silence by the turn of events. The two men managed to get d’Artagnan onto his horse, Aramis climbing up behind him and wrapping the boy in his arms to keep him from falling. They made their way to the spot Porthos had indicated and dug a shallow hollow at the base of the trees before lining it with blankets to protect themselves from the cold ground. Once they’d finished, they carried d’Artagnan over and Aramis sat down first so the boy could rest against him, Athos wrapping both their cloaks around them to contain their body heat. By then Porthos had returned and managed to light a small fire, which he positioned as close as he could to where the Gascon sat. When they could do no more, Athos and Porthos looked inquiringly at Aramis for an explanation.

 

“He was going into shock,” Aramis stated, still keeping his arms wrapped tightly around the young man, one hand around a wrist so he could monitor the boy’s heartbeat. “It was probably from the pain of the fall.” A look of anguish clouded his eyes, “It can kill just as quickly as any sword and the only remedy I’m aware of is to get the body warm.” As he trailed off, he realized that they were missing a member of their party. “Where’s Faulcon?”

 

“Dead,” Athos answered tonelessly.

 

Aramis caught Porthos’ gaze, clearly confused by Athos’ answer. “He used d’Artagnan as a distraction and attacked Athos while we chased after the boy,” Porthos clarified.

 

Aramis nodded, “No loss, I suppose.”

 

Athos’ face was a mixture of fear and torment and Aramis could see that he had a question he wanted to ask. Finally, the older man managed to screw up his courage and he spoke with a small voice that was so unlike him, “Will he be alright?”

 

Aramis wanted to reassure his friend, but the truth was that shock was risky and their circumstances were less than ideal. They could not move the boy while his condition persisted and a night outside in the cold would do little to help him improve. “I,” he started and then fell silent, still uncertain about how to respond. Finally he settled on the truth, knowing that it would be unkind to offer his friend false hope since there was a very real possibility that the boy would die. “I don’t know,” he said softly.

 

Porthos’ head dropped and he stepped away, needing to be in motion to deal with the anxiety of their youngest brother’s condition. Athos didn’t say a word and simply stared, perhaps believing that if he willed it strongly enough the boy would awake solely because he wished it to be so. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do,” Aramis admitted.

 

Athos swallowed down the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him and he sat down next to Aramis, their legs and shoulders touching, as he pulled another blanket over the three of them. Resolving not to let Aramis blame himself for something that was not his fault, Athos pulled his friend’s head toward him, encouraging the man to rest it on his shoulder. “Rest,” he whispered. “I will watch over you now.” He placed a hand on Aramis’ leg and felt the man relax against him, knowing that Aramis was still suffering from his injuries as well as concern for their young friend.

 

When Porthos returned, he brought more wood for their fire and he stoked it carefully, ensuring that it would not go out. “How is he?” he asked, motioning toward Aramis.

 

Taking a deep breath, Athos replied, “I am afraid that he takes on a burden of guilt that is not his to carry.” Dredging up the barest of smiles, he continued, “And he has pushed himself too hard and is suffering from a very painful headache, if his squinting is anything to go by.”

 

Porthos took a seat beside his friends. “Seems to be a lot of that goin’ around these days,” he commented.

 

Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement. “It seems that in my desire to distance myself and protect you all, I have managed the exact opposite. I admit that I cannot remember when I last failed my brothers in such spectacular fashion.”

 

“This wasn’t just your decision, you know,” Porthos pointed out. “None of us could bear the thought of you dealing with this on your own and we weren’t prepared to let you go. That’s the thing about brothers – you don’t get to decide when they choose to protect you.”

 

“Perhaps they would be better off if I did,” Athos remarked.

 

“No,” Porthos countered. “Are you honestly saying that we’d have been better off without you? What would have happened to me when I was attacked if we hadn’t been able to go to your house so Aramis could stitch me up? And do you really believe that Aramis would have survived Savoy and Marsac’s dual betrayal without your steadying presence. And what of the boy? He had no direction and no future after his father was murdered. What would have become of him if you hadn’t taken him under your tutelage?” Porthos paused to see the effect of his words and then continued softly, “What happened to Thomas wasn’t your fault and you diminish him if you suggest that he didn’t have wits enough to be his own man.”

 

Athos sat quietly, unsure of how to take Porthos’ passionately spoken words, a part of him wanting to believe they were accurate while another part refused to pardon him for his part in their current situation. “Perhaps,” he spoke tentatively, “but I’ll need d’Artagnan to survive this before I can forgive myself for what I’ve done.” Porthos tilted his head in understanding and fed another piece of wood into the fire, the two men falling silent as they waited for their friends to wake.

* * *

They stayed in their spot for several hours, reaching the point where only a couple hours of sunlight remained and they knew that a decision would need to be made soon; they either had to leave now to find shelter for the night, or fortify their current position if they were to survive the evening’s cooler temperatures. Porthos watched as Athos shifted carefully, doing his best not to disturb Aramis who was surprisingly still dozing. Despite his best efforts, Aramis’ eyes opened and within moments he remembered the day’s earlier events, doing his best to look down at the boy he still held in his arms. Looking at his two friends, he asked, “Has he woken at all?” At Athos’ head shake, Aramis motioned to the young man’s head, “How does his skin feel?”

 

Athos pulled a glove from his hand and placed his palm against the boy’s cheek and then his brow. “I believe he’s warmer.”

 

Porthos grinned hopefully at Athos’ statement as Aramis continued, “See if you can wake him.”

 

Athos replaced his palm on the boy’s cheek and softly called his name. At the same time, Aramis used a hand to rub the Gascon’s uninjured arm in an effort to rouse him. Moments later, their efforts were rewarded as d’Artagnan’s bleary eyes opened and he blinked fuzzily in an attempt to focus his vision.

 

“There you are,” Athos encouraged, “it’s good to see you awake.”

 

“Athos?” the young man asked groggily. He rolled his head and found that he was leaning against something warm and soft, his face lolling into the crook of Aramis’ shoulder. “Wha’?” he questioned fuzzily.

 

“Aramis,” Porthos supplied helpfully.

 

“How are you feeling, lad?” Aramis asked.

 

“Confused?” d’Artagnan offered.

 

The comment drew a chuckle from both Aramis and Porthos and even Athos’ lips quirked lazily at the young man’s reply. “You were in shock and we needed to warm you quickly. This is the best way I’m aware of,” Aramis explained.

 

“Oh,” the Gascon replied.

 

“You sure he’s alright? His answers seem a little slower than usual,” Porthos teased.

 

The comment brought a frown to d’Artagnan’s face but the effect was ruined when he attempted to sit up, the action protested by his sore ribs. “Ow,” he breathed carefully for a moment, “forgot about those.”

 

Aramis’ face turned serious and he said to the others, “Help me up so I can have a proper look at him. One of you will need to take my place.”

 

Porthos and Athos traded glances, each wanting the other to take over as d’Artagnan’s pillow, but Porthos moved first to pull the boy forward and brace him so Aramis could work his way free. Giving Athos a meaningful look, he motioned for the man to take Aramis’ place since he still held the young man upright. With a roll of his eyes Athos moved into position, Porthos settling d’Artagnan against his chest when he was ready. The move had caused the Gascon’s injuries to flare and he kept his eyes closed for several seconds as he worked to regain a hold over the pain. When he felt better, d’Artagnan was surprised to find that Athos was murmuring words of comfort into his ear, a hand clasped in his own, which the young man was embarrassed to find he was gripping tightly. Reluctantly releasing his hold on the older man’s hand, he gave a short nod, “I’m alright now. Thank you.”

 

He could feel Athos’ answering nod behind him and was reminded of the comfort and safety he’d once found in his mentor’s presence. Of course that was before….well, before these last few weeks, and as the thought asserted itself, Athos could feel the boy stiffening in his hold and he motioned for Aramis to hurry up and complete his exam.

 

Aramis seemed pleased with the boy’s temperature and color although he still huffed at the lines of pain and circles of fatigue around the young man’s eyes. Pronouncing him fit enough, he leaned back on his haunches, casting an appraising eye over the sky. “It’ll be dark soon. If we’re going to ride, we should do so now.”

 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Athos asked, his concern for the young man reasserting itself.

 

Aramis nodded, “Far better for us to find proper shelter than to spend a night shivering in the cold.” He stood and moved to his saddlebags. “Give me a moment to get some medicine into the boy and we can get going.”

 

At Aramis’ words, Porthos moved to start breaking camp, knowing that time was of the essence if they were to find lodging before nightfall. Once d’Artagnan had been medicated, they moved swiftly to repack their belongings and mount their horses. Athos stood on the ground momentarily after the Gascon had been helped into his saddle, hesitating to get onto his own horse. Aramis clapped a hand to his shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “He should be fine on his own for a bit.”

 

Athos nodded and swung into his own saddle, a backward glance over his shoulder confirming the others were ready to. He urged his horse into motion, settling on a quick walk as they began to scout the road for a place to spend the night.

* * *

For once fortune had smiled on them and they’d located an inn less than an hour’s ride from where they’d camped. Aramis grimaced when he realized how close they’d been to a warm fire and comfortable beds, but couldn’t complain since the young man had recovered despite their frigid surroundings. Unexpectedly, the inn had rooms enough for all of them and after a simple but filling meal, they retired, three men intending to sleep while the fourth raided the inn’s meager wine selection, bringing five dusty bottles back to his room. Athos applied himself diligently to his drinking that night, successfully finishing four out of the five bottles before he passed out. Porthos had found him hanging half on and half off the bed the following morning and simply rolled him further onto the bed before fetching a pail of water.

 

At breakfast that morning, Aramis and Porthos had done their best to carry on a conversation but Athos was heavily hung-over while d’Artagnan seemed to be brooding, likely about his mentor’s excessive alcohol consumption and the continued rift between the two. When they found their efforts to be futile, Porthos and Aramis gave up and the remainder of their meal passed in silence. Little did they know that this would be the way their next few days would pass as both Athos and d’Artagnan seemed to withdraw further into themselves, to the point where the two men seemed to intentionally avoid one another and even their two friends could evoke only the barest of responses. When they arrived at the garrison three days later, they were weary and sore, d’Artagnan especially who still struggled with the persistent ache of his injuries.

 

As soon as they’d passed through the garrison gates, Athos slipped off his horse and mounted the stairs to Treville’s office to report. Porthos and Aramis exchanged wary glances, knowing that they’d have to be extra diligent now and not allow Athos to steal away on his own. Porthos helped d’Artagnan off his horse and the young man nodded gratefully at the help, doing his best to regain his breath after the pain of dismounting. Aramis took him by the elbow of his uninjured arm and said, “Come on, we’ll let the surgeon have a look at you. I’m fairly confident everything’s healing well, but it’s better to be safe rather than sorry.” He threw a meaningful look to Porthos as he escorted the Gascon to the infirmary, the larger man wrapping his cloak around him as he took up a position against a post to wait for Athos to return.

 

As they’d expected, Athos was brief and concise in his report and was exiting Treville’s office minutes later. He spotted Porthos waiting for him in the courtyard and walked over, “Treville’s given us tomorrow to rest. The boy will be off for however long the surgeon and Aramis decide.” Having shared his news, Athos made to move away, only to be stopped by Porthos’ hand on his arm. He raised a questioning eyebrow at the act, waiting for Porthos to explain. “Why don’t we go see what the surgeon thinks about d’Artagnan’s injuries?”

 

“I’m sure he and Aramis have things well in hand. I’d rather head to my rooms and rest.” Athos made to move away again, and Porthos’ grip tightened. “Let’s wait for Aramis then and we can all go together.”

 

Athos’ voice turned steely as he twisted out of Porthos’ grasp, “Perhaps another time; I’d prefer to be alone tonight. You understand, I’m sure.” The older man strode off and Porthos stood cursing under his breath, torn between following and staying to wait for Aramis. In the end, his fear for Athos won out and he ducked his head into the stables, calling to the boy, “If Aramis comes lookin’, let him know I’ve gone after Athos.” With that, he sped out of the gates, spotting Athos moving deftly between the few people who were still outside, braving the cold.

 

Athos navigated the streets easily, moving further and further away from the garrison until they’d reached a part of the city that Porthos was surprised Athos would be familiar with. A quick right had the elder man passing through the doorway of a poorly-lit tavern, pushing his way through unwashed bodies and whores plying their wares, until he reached a table in a back corner. There, he dropped heavily in his seat, dropping his hat on the table in front of him as he waved to a barmaid to bring him a drink. Porthos managed to slip in several steps after his friend, remaining near the door but with an unobstructed line of sight to where Athos sat. The large man shook his head at the fact that Athos had been unaware he’d been followed and, worse yet, that he was now being observed, clear indications of his poor physical and mental state.

 

As Porthos kept watch, nursing a tankard of ale, Athos chugged his way through first one bottle and then a second of what, Porthos could only imagine, was very poor wine indeed. By the time he’d moved on to his third, Athos was no longer guzzling but had foregone the effort of pouring the wine into a glass. By the man’s somewhat hunched position, Porthos could see the alcohol was starting to take effect and he wondered how much more the man would drink before passing out. Apparently his question would go unanswered this night as two roughhousing men knocked into Athos’ table, spilling the fourth bottle that he’d just started on. Porthos watched as Athos staggered to his feet, grabbing one of the men by his shirt collar to deliver a clumsy roundhouse punch to the man’s cheek. As the man was knocked to the floor by the force of Athos’ blow, his friend turned to face the Musketeer, backhanding him with a growl.

 

Porthos was already moving through the crowded tavern as Athos pushed himself away from the wall where he’d stumbled, and launched himself at his newest adversary. Unfortunately, as he did so, the first man Athos had punched stood up and grabbed his arms from behind, holding him in place while his friend rained blows on his face and chest. By the time Porthos reached the melee, Athos’ head was drooping and blood dripped from a split lip. With a growl, Porthos dispatched one man by flinging him bodily into an unforgiving post, the man’s head striking the wood and falling limply to the floor. The other man released Athos at once, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, but Porthos was not so easily calmed. Gently shifting Athos into a chair, he delivered a strike to the man’s face before lifting a foot to land a kick to the man’s chest that pushed him backwards to land inelegantly on the floor.

 

Porthos dropped to one knee in front of his friend, and lifted the man’s head up to examine his face; he grimaced at what he saw. Athos’ split lip was still bleeding sluggishly and his left eye was beginning to swell. Lower, his jawline bore the beginnings of a nasty bruise and his eyes were blurry and unfocused. Porthos released a sigh of frustration at his friend’s condition as he braced the man with a hand on one arm. “Are you alright?” he asked.

 

Athos considered the question for several long moments before offering a shaky nod and Porthos allowed another deep exhale to escape. “Come on then,” Porthos said wearily as he screwed Athos’ hat onto his head, threw his friend’s arm over one shoulder and pulled the man upwards. Athos swayed for a second but then seemed to regain his equilibrium and Porthos dragged them both through the throng of people to the exit. When they stepped outside, Porthos considered his options, finally deciding to bring Athos back to the garrison. With d’Artagnan still injured and Porthos away, it was likely that Aramis had stayed by the Gascon’s side rather than returning to his own rooms.

 

As they walked back, Porthos was pleased to feel Athos becoming somewhat more aware, even managing to take more of his own weight, and by the time they arrived at the garrison Porthos was helping only to guide the man rather than keeping him upright. Wordlessly he maneuvered them up the stairs to the infirmary, pushing the door open to pull Athos inside. His heart lifted at the sight of d’Artagnan’s sleeping form in one of the beds, Aramis right next to him in a second cot. He passed the boy’s bed and dragged Athos to Aramis’ other side, pushing him to sit on the empty mattress.

 

Years of soldiering had kept Aramis’ senses sharp and he sat up as Porthos straightened, grimacing at the soreness of his back after the evening’s adventures. “How is he?” Aramis asked as he made his way around the end of the bed to have a look at their friend.

 

“Managed three bottles before a brawl interrupted his drinking. They landed a few good hits to his face and chest before I managed to stop them,” Porthos explained.

 

“Hmmm,” Aramis hummed as he moved Athos’ face left and then right to examine it in the poor light. Moving to undress the now pliant man, Aramis’ nimble fingers unlaced Athos’ doublet as he spoke, “I’ll need some warm water and clean cloths.” Porthos nodded as he moved to collect the requested items, Aramis pulling the doublet off his friend’s shoulders before lifting his shirt to gain access to his chest. Aramis hissed in sympathy as the extent of the man’s injuries were revealed, patches of reddened skin already starting to turn colour as they bruised. He looked up at Athos’ face for any signs of discomfort, but the older man seemed strangely uncaring and his eyes stared vacantly over the top of Aramis’ shoulder. Returning his gaze to Athos’ chest, Aramis gently assessed the damage there, pushing on his friend’s ribs to confirm that nothing was broken. “That’s good news, at least,” he muttered when he’d finished.

 

Porthos rejoined them and placed a bowl of warm water and clean cloths on the bed next to where Athos sat, and Aramis efficiently removed the blood and dirt from his friend’s face, neck and hands. When he was done, Aramis stood and removed the bowl from the bed, while Porthos pulled Athos to stand so Aramis could pull back the blanket before they laid there friend down. When they were done getting Athos settled, the two moved several feet away so they could converse without fear of waking their friends. “How bad?” Aramis asked.

 

“Pretty bad,” Porthos admitted. “I didn’t even think he knew about those parts of Paris.”

 

Aramis tugged at his hair, the worry clear on his face. “We can’t leave him alone. He doesn’t even have the good sense to drink where he won’t have his throat slit. If you hadn’t been there tonight…” Aramis trailed off, not willing to give voice to his morbid thoughts.

 

Porthos placed a hand on Aramis’ arm, trying to relieve his distress, “It’s alright, Aramis, we’ll be there for him whether he wants us to be or not. Why don’t you lay back down and get some more sleep?”

 

Aramis shook his head, “No, I managed a few hours but you haven’t. I’ll stay up now while you rest.” Porthos raised an eyebrow, asking if his friend was certain and receiving a nod in reply. Shrugging, Porthos moved to take the bed Aramis had been in earlier, while Aramis seated himself in a chair next to the Gascon’s bed, waiting to see what morning would bring.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan nodded, smiling at the older man, letting him know that no further words were necessary.

d’Artagnan was the first to wake the following morning, having had the most hours of sleep, which had been aided by the surgeon’s powerful pain relief. He’d been grateful for it last night for the man had been overly efficient in his examination, leaving the Gascon sweating and panting in agony. He’d been unsurprised at the man’s verdict – all’s healing well and needs time and rest; he had the utmost faith in Aramis’ abilities and would have expected nothing less. He laid comfortably as he opened his eyes, feeling the dull throb of pain from his broken bones which he knew would remain manageable for as long as he stayed still. He rolled his head to one side, taking in Aramis’ form at the side of his bed, head hanging forward as he dozed. On the other side of him, he spotted first Porthos and then Athos, both men asleep in their own beds. The sight warmed his heart and he laid quietly, enjoying the comfort of being in his brothers’ presence.

 

A particularly loud snore from Porthos had Aramis startling awake in his chair and the man lifted his head to find d’Artagnan awake. Apparently the sound had been loud enough to wake Porthos and Athos as well and the Gascon could hear them both shifting as he faced Aramis who was asking how he was doing. “I feel much better today,” d’Artagnan admitted, acknowledging the effects of the quality sleep he’d gotten.

 

“Good,” Aramis beamed at him, “up for some breakfast?”

 

d’Artagnan’s stomach growled at the thought of food, widening Aramis’ smile, and Porthos moved around the bed into his line of sight, grinning as well. “How ‘bout I go find us something?”

 

The men nodded agreeably and d’Artagnan turned his head to where Athos now sat watching him. The Gascon’s happy countenance turned to a frown as he took in the swelling and bruising around his mentor’s eye and along the jawbone. “What happened to you?” he questioned, suspiciously.

 

Athos made no move to answer, so Aramis replied instead, “Athos spent several hours acquainting himself with some exceptionally poor wine and ended up exchanging blows with a couple of drunkards before Porthos could intervene.”

 

Athos scowled at Aramis’ description, moving to correct him, “I had things well in hand and didn’t need Porthos’ help.”

 

Porthos had just walked through the door carrying a basket and snorted at the man’s comment, “That’s not how it looked last night.”

 

Athos’ glare only intensified, now encompassing both of his traitorous friends, but it was d’Artagnan who was moving, pushing himself to sit on the edge of his bed. He leaned forward as he braced his broken arm. “Are you alright?” he demanded.    

 

Athos gave a partial shrug while Aramis again answered on his behalf, “He was lucky. Most of his chest looks as bad as his face, but there’s nothing broken.”

 

At Aramis’ words, d’Artagnan pushed himself to his feet, gasping as the action pulled on his sore ribs. Aramis made to follow, but Porthos held him back with a hand on one arm. This conversation needed to happen and Porthos was determined to allow it. Shuffling around the end of the beds, d’Artagnan sat down across from Athos, reaching a hand forward to snag the bottom of his mentor’s shirt. Athos placed a hand on his, stopping the action, but at another glare from d’Artagnan, the older man removed his hand. The Gascon lifted Athos’ shirt, revealing the plentiful bruising that had darkened overnight. d’Artagnan stared at it for several seconds before releasing the hem of the shirt and allowing it to fall. “Why?” he demanded.

 

Athos offered another infuriating shrug but remained silent. d’Artagnan took a deep breath that caused him to wince, doing his best to remain calm but failing miserably. After several inhales and exhales, he stood and began to pace, rounding on the man several seconds later, “Why do you do this to yourself, Athos?” he cried. “Is this because of me?” The Gascon scrubbed a hand through his hair as he continued pacing. “I’ve tried to follow your instructions and I’m sorry for what happened during the storm. If you feel you cannot trust me anymore, just tell me. I will go to Treville at once and ask to be removed from missions with you.” The young man was breathing heavily now and Porthos had to again prevent Aramis from going to his aid. d’Artagnan wore a look of deep anguish on his face and his steps were becoming unsure, but his words continued to tumble one after the other, “If you’re mad at me, then just tell me, but don’t put yourself in harm’s way. I cannot bear the thought that you have been hurt because of your dissatisfaction with me.” As his last words slipped passed his lips, his body rebelled and he stumbled heavily, Aramis jumping from his seat immediately in an effort to catch him but Athos was there first.

 

With strong but gentle hands, Athos caught the boy as he began his downward motion, slowing his descent and controlling it so he ended sitting across from Athos instead of on the floor. d’Artagnan’s head fell as he panted with exertion, his eyes closed and face screwed up in pain as his ribs and arm protested. Several minutes passed while the young man recovered himself, finally looking at Athos with grief-filled eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he shook his head, “it was never my intention to disappoint you.”

 

Athos’ face now mirrored the Gascon’s and with a quiet sob, Athos moved to sit next to the boy, pulling him into a fierce hug. d’Artagnan was confused but allowed himself to be held, revelling in the comfort of his friend’s arms, which might soon be denied to him. They sat that way for several minutes until Athos pulled away slightly to whisper in the Gascon’s ear, “You have never made me anything but proud.”

 

At that d’Artagnan pulled back, needing to see his mentor’s face as he asked, “Then why?”

 

Athos swallowed thickly and his gaze moved to Porthos who nodded in encouragement and pushed Aramis to move toward the now vacant bed across from their two friends. As Aramis and Porthos sat down, the large man again nodded at Athos, willing him silently to finally share his story. Athos gave an abbreviated nod of his own and began to speak, “Thomas was always following me around, as younger brothers are wont to do. I worked very hard to ensure his admiration of me was not misplaced, although in all honesty, I don’t understand exactly why he thought so highly of me.” Unknown to Athos, Aramis and Porthos rolled their eyes at his comment. “When he…died,” he could not bring himself to say _when he was murdered_ , “my grief was overshadowed by the sorrow and guilt I felt at having to condemn my wife. My inability to keep him safe from her treachery is my greatest failure.” Athos paused and took a deep breath, “His birthday has always been difficult and this year proved to be especially challenging.”

 

d’Artagnan had sat quietly, listening with rapt attention to his friend’s quiet words, but now he was confused. “When was his birthday?” he asked.

 

Athos raised sorrowful eyes to the Gascon’s as he answered, “The 24th of February.”

 

"The 24th, but that was just..." d’Artagnan trailed off as he realized the significance of what he’d been told. The weeks of drinking and foul temper, topped by his desire to drink himself into a stupor the previous night – suddenly, it all made sense, except for one thing. “Why has this year been harder than the others?”

 

Athos pursed his lips, trying to find the right words that would convey all that the boy meant to him rather than how his presence had made his last weeks nearly impossible to bear. “Sometimes, you remind me of him,” Athos admitted quietly.

 

“Oh,” d’Artagnan’s face fell at the implication; Athos had been trying to distance himself because he found d’Artagnan’s company distasteful. “Of course, I should have realized,” the Gascon stammered. He groped blindly for the edge of the bed with his free hand, pushing himself to his feet, intending to leave before the tears that now blurred his vision had an opportunity to fall.

 

He’d managed no more than a couple steps before Porthos stood in front of him, blocking his way. “Where are you going?” he asked, confusion written on his face.

 

d’Artagnan motioned in the general direction of the door, eyes cast resolutely downwards to stare at his feet. Porthos huffed in annoyance, gripped the boy’s elbow and led him back to sit next to Athos. With a pointed look at the older man, he motioned for his friend to explain.

 

Athos placed a hand on the young man’s leg, grounding him and ensuring that he wouldn’t bolt again. “You misunderstand me, d’Artagnan. I had forgotten what it was like to be an older brother and you reminded me when you wormed your way into our midst.” The Gascon looked up sharply at Athos’ comment, preparing to defend his actions when he noted the slight upturn to the man’s lips which softened his words. “You managed to fill a void that I was certain was impossible to fill and I am grateful. I just don’t want to be robbed of another younger brother and when you persist in putting yourself in harm’s way to protect us…to protect me…” Athos sighed, uncertain of how to continue. Silence stretched between the men for nearly a minute, before Athos licked his lips and finished softly, “I am unworthy of such devotion and admit I lack the strength to survive your loss.”

 

Realization had dawned on d’Artagnan’s face at his mentor’s words and he knocked his shoulder gently against his friend’s, prompting the older man to look up. d’Artagnan nodded, smiling at the older man, letting him know that no further words were necessary. They both knew that the Gascon could not and would not promise to act any differently in the future, but they both recognized what each meant to the other. Shifting his gaze to his other two friends, Athos found similar looks of acceptance and understanding reflected there.

 

“You do realize that’s a load of rubbish you’ve been spewing and we don’t believe a word of it?” Porthos stated kindly.

 

Aramis nodded sombrely, “I have never had the privilege of calling three finer men _brother_ and we will not stand for this continual doubt that plagues you, no matter how many times we have to remind you that you are more than worthy of our love and loyalty.”

 

“Never doubt that we are just as grateful for the constancy you offer in return,” d’Artagnan reminded.

 

Ducking his head, Athos murmured, “I’m sorry for making these past few weeks so…”

 

“Problematic?” Aramis offered.

 

“Tense?” Porthos chimed in.

 

“Troubling,” Athos stated firmly, shaking his head in disbelief and gratitude at how easily his friends extended their forgiveness.

 

“Think nothing more of it,” Aramis assured, smiling and placing a hand on the older man’s leg. “Fortunately for you, your friends are of the highest caliber and possess an exceptionally forgiving nature.” His face turned serious as he finished, “Just don’t let it happen again.”

 

Porthos nodded, clasping a hand to Athos’ arm and d’Artagnan again leaned into his friend in a show of solidarity, thankful beyond measure that he would not suffer the loss of his mentor. "Well then,” Athos took a deep breath as he looked at the faces of his three brothers, “I believe I heard something about breakfast. And this one,” he pinned d’Artagnan with a mock glare, “definitely needs some fattening up.” The Gascon rolled his eyes at the comment before joining his friends in the laughter that bubbled from their chests, even Athos struggling to keep a straight face. The past few weeks had been incredibly painful, and not just physically, but now, as they revelled in the camaraderie of their brotherhood, the healing could finally begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who decided to go on this angst-filled journey with me. I'm grateful for all the feedback I received and am confident that you've helped to improve this story through your thoughtful comments. Hopefully the ending was satisfactory, despite the fact that it's short - as my hubby reminds me, men just deal with it and move on and I believe that's what's reflected here. Thank you as well to everyone who has expressed an interest in future stories. I've been working on another for the last few weeks and hope to have it up some time in December. Until then, thanks again for encouraging my writing addiction!


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